University   o.    ..-lifornia 

IRVINE 


POEMS 

BY    WILLIAM    SHARP 


SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED  BY 

MRS.  WILLIAM  SHARP 


DUFFIELD   AND   COMPANY 
1922 


All  rights  reserved 


FOREWORD 

THE  writings  of  William  Sharp  divide 
themselves  in  the  midway  of  his  literary 
life  into  two  distinct  phases.  The  more 
racially  imaginative  phase,  put  forward 
under  shelter  of  a  pseudonym,  has  been 
gathered  together  in  the  "Fiona  Macleod  " 
Series  published  by  Mr.  Heinemann  ;  and 
it  seems  fitting  that  a  companion  Series  of 
writings  of  William  Sharp,  signed  with  his 
own  name,  should  follow,  and  be  as  repre- 
sentative as  possible,  so  that  the  two 
phases  of  his  work  can  be  compared  con- 
veniently. 

As  the  "  W.  S."  writings  extend  over  a 
period  of  thirty  years  (the  "  F.  M."  period 
coincided  with  the  last  twelve  years  of  the 
author's  life),  and  comprise  a  wide  range 
of  subjects — poems,  fiction,  biographies, 
essays  critical  and  reminiscent,  and  a  mass 
of  ephemeral  work  urged  by  the  necessities 
of  daily  life — it  has  been  somewhat  difficult 
to  determine  on  what  basis  to  make  a 
selection  for  the  present  Series.  Finally,  I 
decided  to  make  choice  from  among  the 
v 


Foreword 

shorter  poems,  from  essays  and  tales,  to 
the  exclusion  of  the  longer  novel  and 
biography,  and  thus,  moreover,  to  fulfil 
certain  of  his  expressed  wishes: 

In  the  arrangement  of  these  volumes  I  have 
not  preserved  a  definite  chronological  order, 
except  in  that,  of  songs  and  poems.  I  have 
preferred  to  group  the  contents  according 
to  their  subjects :  Vol.  I.  Poems  :  Vol.  II. 
Critical  Essays  :  Vols.  III.  and  IV.  Papers, 
Biographic  and  Reminiscent :  Vol.  V.  Short 
Stories.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  of 
the  poems,  early  experimental  work  is 
unrepresented  ;  the  earliest  prose  work  in- 
cluded is  the  essay  on  the  sonnet  written 
in  the  author's  thirty-first  year.  In  accord- 
ance with  his  own  wishes  his  Life  of  Rossetti 
— considered  by  him  as  youthful  and  un- 
balanced— also  his  romance,  The  Children 
of  To-morrow,  are  not  reissued.  Of  his  later 
novels,  Wives  in  Exile  and  Silence  Farm 
(both  out  of  print)  were  written  during  the 
"  Fiona  Macleod  "  period  out  of  a  desire 
to  strengthen  the  reputation  of  "  W.  S." 
and  thus  help  to  shield  the  identity  of 
"  F.  M."  My  husband  considered  that 
Silence  Farm  contained  his  most  successful 
effort  in  characterisation.  Nevertheless,  in 
it,  he  deliberately  suppressed  certain  qualities 
vi 


Foreword 

natural  to  him,  and  emphasised  others  in 
order  to  make  the  style  of  writing  as  unlike 
that  of  "  Fiona  Macleod  "  as  possible.  Of 
other  excluded  mature  work,  the  mono- 
graphs on  Shelley,  Browning,  and  Heine 
are  available  among  the  publications  of 
Messrs.  Walter  Scott,  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  permission  to  include  in  this  volume  the 
ballads  of  "The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott," 
"The  Death-Child,"  and  "  The  Isle  of  Lost 
Dreams."  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Joseph 
Severn  is  out  of  print ;  and  the  Progress  of 
Art  in  the  XIX  Century  is  published  by 
Messrs  W.  and  R.  Chambers. 

The  poems  in  the  present  volume  (1879- 
1905)  are  selected  from  five  volumes 
and  a  number  of  miscellaneous  poems 
published  in  his  own  name,  and  not 
from  those  written  over  the  pseudonym 
of  "Fiona  Macleod"  (1893-1905).  The 
earliest  volume,  The  Human  Inheritance 
(Elliot  Stock,  1882)  opened  with  a 
long  poem  in  four  cycles  descriptive  of 
Childhood,  Youth,  Manhood,  and  Old 
Age  ;  and  from  it  are  taken  "  Childhood's 
Inheritance,"  "Motherhood,"  &c.  The 
sonnets  "  Spring  Wind "  and  "  A  Mid- 
summer Hour "  were  included  in  The 
Sonnets  of  this  Century  (Walter  Scott), 
vii 


Foreword 

as  were  also  those  "  To  D.  G.  Rossetti," 
to  whose  memory  the  anthology  was  dedi- 
cated. Earth's  Voices  (Elliot  Stock,  1884), 
dedicated  to  Walter  Pater,  contained  a 
series  of  lyrics — voices  of  the  forests,  rivers, 
winds,  flowers,  mountains,  oceans — two 
long  poems,  "  Sospitra  "  and  "  Gaspara 
Stampa,"  from  which  "  To  suffer  grief  is 
to  be  strong "  and  "  Sleep "  are  taken. 
"  The  Record  "  is  autobiographic,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  the  beginning  of  an  endeavour 
to  relate  memories  of  past  lives  that  haunted 
the  author. 

Romantic  Ballads  (Walter  Scott,  1888) 
was  written  under  "  the  earnest  conviction 
that  a  Romantic  Revival  is  imminent  in  our 
poetic  literature  "  ;  that,  as  he  stated  in  the 
Preface,  "  the  third  great  epoch  of  English 
poetic  literature  will  be  an  essentially 
dramatic  one  :  and  its  fruitage  will  neces- 
sarily be  preceded  by  a  blossoming  of  the 
genuinely  romantic  sentiment  ...  of  the 
Romantic  spirit — not  the  formal  letter  of 
Romanticism — a  renascence  which  will  be 
as  manifest  in  realistic  as  well  as  in  more 
directly  imaginative  prose  and  poetry.  .  .  . 
In  '  The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott  '  [of  which 
two  sections  are  herein  included]  I  have 
attempted  a  ballad  in  enlarged  form — that 

viji 


Foreword 

is,  it  is  meant  as  a  lyrical  tragedy  of  a  soul 
that  finds  the  face  of  disastrous  fate  against 
it  whithersoever  it  turns  in  the  closing 
moment  of  mortal  life."  And  he  adds,  "  The 
thrill  of  the  supernatural  is  so  keen  because 
it  touches  the  most  natural  part  of  us." 

The  poet  spent  the  winter  and  spring 
of  1890-91  in  Rome  and  its  environ- 
ments ;  the  immediate  literary  outcome 
thereof  was  a  volume  of  unrhymed,  irregu- 
lar metres,  printed  at  Tivoli,  published 
privately  that  spring  under  the  title  of 
Sospiri  di  Roma  and  prefaced  by  an 
etched  portrait  of  him  by  Sir  Charles 
Holroyd.  Concerning  his  use  of  unrhymed 
metre  he  wrote  to  a  friend  :  "  What  can  be 
done  in  Greek  and  German  can  be  done  in 
English.  This  has  been  proved,  for  some 
of  Matthew  Arnold's  finest  work  is  in 
unrhymed  verse.  ...  I  felt  that  there  is 
in  verse,  as  in  painting,  a  borderland  for 
impressionism  pure  and  simple,  for  the 
suggestion  of  a  certain  colour  and  emotion, 
a  vivid  actuality,  which  are  apt  to  be 
dissipated  by  the  effort  and  restrictions  of 
rhyme.  ...  In  this  verse  you  will  find 
something  of  my  passion  for  the  Campagna, 
and  of  that  still  deeper  passion  and  longing 
for  the  Beautiful.  All  that  I  attempt  to 


Foreword 

do  is  to  fashion  anew  something  of  the  lovely 
vision  I  have  seen." 

"The  Coming  of  Love,"  "The  Untold 
Story,"  and  "  Dionysos  in  India  "  appeared 
originally  in  The  Pagan  Review  (1892),  the 
first  and  only  number  of  a  projected  monthly 
review  edited  by  "  W.  H.  Brooks  " — of 
which  William  Sharp  wrote  every  word 
from  cover  to  cover,  under  the  pseudonyms 
of  the  Editor  and  the  seven  contributors. 

Of  the  section  of  poems  1893-1905,  "  Hill 
Water  "  was  written  for  the  Evergreen,  1895, 
a  quarterly  issued  by  Patrick  Geddes  and 
Colleagues,  and  "  Spanish  Roses  "  is  taken 
from  A  Fellow  and  His  Wife,  a  novel 
written  in  collaboration  with  Blanche  Willis 
Howard  ;  the  remaining  poems  in  the  last 
section  were  contributed  variously  to 
Harpers  Magazine,  the  Century,  New  York 
Independent,  Literature,  Country  Lije,  and 
the  Pall  Mall  Magazine. 

The  Fragment  entitled  "  Persephoneia  " 
is  the  Prologue  to  a  five-act  play,  begun  in 
1903  at  II  Castello  di  Maniace,  on  Etna  ; 
and  of  it  the  complete  draft,  the  Prologue, 
and  half  the  first  act  only  were  written. 
ELIZABETH  A.  SHARP 


CONTENTS 

FROM  THE  HUMAN  INHERITANCE  (1882) 

PAGE 

First  Words  3 

Childhood's  Inheritance  4 

Young  Love  .  14 

Motherhood  16 

The  Redeemer  31 

Lines  to  E.  A.  S.  33 

SONNETS  (1882-1886) 

Spring  Wind  37 

A  Midsummer  Hour  38 

Pain  39 

Possibilities  40 

To  D.  G.  Rossetti.     I.  41 

To  D.  G.  Rossetti.     II.  42 

FROM  EARTH'S  VOICES  (1884) 

Madonna  Natura  45 

During  Music  48 

Shadowed  Souls  50 

Song  53 

Sleep  54 

Mater  Dolorosa  55 

The  Song  of  the  Thrush  57 

The  Song  of  Flowers  59 


Contents 

PAGB 

Song  of  the  Cornfields  60 

The  Field  Mouse  62 

The  West  Wind  63 

Hymn  of  the  Forests  ,  64 

Song  of  the  Deserts  66 

A  Record  67 

Moonrise  from  lona  79 
Moonrise  on  the  Venetian  Lagoons        81 

Moonrise  on  the  Antarctic  82 

TRANSCRIPTS.  FROM  NATURE  (1882-1886) 

Wild  Roses  87 

The  Ebbing  Tide  87 

Dawn  amid  Scotch  Firs  88 

A  Dead  Calm  and  Mist  88 

Tangled  Sunrays  89 

Loch  Coruisk  (Skye)  89 

Sunrise  above  broad  Wheatfields  90 

Phosphorescent  Sea  90 

A  Green  Wave  91 

A  Crystal  Forest  91 

The  Wasp  92 

An  Autumnal  Evening  92 

A  Winter  Hedgerow  93 

The  Rookery  at  Sunrise  93 

Moonrise  '    94 

Fireflies  94 

The  Crescent  Moon  95 

The  Eagle  95 

A  Venetian  Sunset  96 

Empire  96 

AUSTRALIAN  SKETCHES 

The  Last  Aboriginal  99 

The  Corobboree  102 

xii 


Contents 

PAGE 

Justice  104 

Noon-Silence  104 


AUSTRALIAN   TRANSCRIPTS 

An  Orange  Grove  107 
Black  Swans  on  the  Murray  Lagoons  107 

Breaking  Billows  at  Sorrento  108 

Shea-Oak  Trees  on  a  Stormy  Day  108 

Mid-Noon  in  January                 .  109 

In  the  Fern  109 

Sunset  amid  the  Buffalo  Mountains  no 

The  Flying  Mouse  no 

The  Bell-Bird  1 1 1 

The  Wood-Swallows  in 

The  Rock-Lily  112 

The  Flame-Tree  112 


FROM  ROMANTIC  BALLADS  (1888) 

The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott  115 

The  Twin -Soul  133 

The  Isle  of  Lost  Dreams  135 

The  Death-Child  136 

The  Coves  of  Crail  138 


FROM  SOSPIRI  DI  ROMA  (1891) 

Prelude  141 

Susurro  143 
High  Noon  at  Midsummer  on  the 

Campagna  144 

The  Fountain  of  the  Acqua  Paola  146 

Clouds  152 

Red  Poppies  154 

xiii 


Contents 

FACE 

The  White  Peacock  156 

The  Swimmer  of  Nemi  159 

Al  far  della  Notte  161 

Thistledown  163 

The  Shepherd  166 

The  Mandolin  169 

Bat-Wings  174 

La  Velia  175 

Spuma  dal  Mare  177 

The  Bather  179 

The  Wild  Mare  182 

Scirocco  184 

The  Wind  at  Fidenae  187 

Sorgendo  da  Luna  189 

In  July  :  Agro  Romano  192 

A  Dream  at  Ardea  194 

De  Profundis  203 

Ultimo  Sospiro  205 

Epilogue  :  II  Bosco  Sacro  207 

POEMS  (1889-1893) 

Oceanus — I-IX  215 

A  Paris  Nocturne  221 

Robert  Browning  224 

The  Man  and  the  Centaur  23 1 
Dionysos  in  India — A  Fragment  233 
Ballad  of  the  Song  of  the  Sea- Wind  241 


SONNETS  (1893) 

Sonnet- Sequence — I- VI 1 1  245 

An  Untold  Story — I  and  II  253 

The  Veils  of  Silence  255 

Written  by  the  Sea  256 

The  Menace  of  Autumn  257 
xiv 


Contents 

Aftermath  2cg 

Flora  in  January  259 

POEMS  (1893-1905) 

From  Oversea  263 

Song  264 

The  Sun  Lord  26? 

The  Summer  Woman  266 

Sycamores  in  Bloom  267 

Spring's  Advent  268 

The  Summer  Wind  270 

The  Hill  Water  271 

Rainbow-Shimmer  274 

The  Yellowhammer's  Song  276 

The  Song  of  the  Sea- Wind  278 

Spanish  Roses  280 

The  Sea-born  Vine  282 

Venilia  2g5 

On  a  Nightingale  in  April  286 

The  Dirge  of  the  Republic  287 

Into  the  Silence  290 

The  Hill-Road  to  Ardmore  291 

White  Rose  292 

Echoes  of  Joy  293 
When  the  Greenness  is  come  again     294 

It  happened  in  May  295 

Nightingale  Lane  296 

Blossom  of  Snow  297 

The  Dandelion  298 

The  Dream- Wind  300 

Triad  3oi 

IN  MEMORIAM  202 

PERSEPHONEIA  (1903) 

A  Fragment  305 
XV 


FROM 

THE    HUMAN 
INHERITANCE 

1882 


Praise  be  the  fathomless  universe 
For  life  and  joy  .  .  .  and  love, 
sweet  love. 


FIRST   WORDS 

(To  the  one  who  has  always  first  read  everything 
I  have  written.) 

How  can  I  tell  thee,  dear,  what  never  words 
Have  fitly  told  ?     How  ope  my  heart  to  thee 
Wherein  thou  mightst,  as  in  a  well,   per- 
ceive 

Deep  down  but  the  mere  shadow  of  my  love  ? 
But  as  the  wind  sweeps  from  the  icy  north 
To  some  lov'd  isle  in  dim  Pacific  seas, 
Or  as  the  never-ceasing  circling  waves 
Follow  round  earth  the  radiant  orb  of  night, 
So  follow  I  with  love  unspeakable 
The  pathways  fill'd  with  light  which  are  thine 

own. 

O  love,  thou  art  the  flame  that  burns  for  me, 
My  steady  purpose !     That  no  dark   can 

quench  ! 

Holding  thy  hand  I  fear  no  more  to  watch 
The  shifting  of  the  changeful  lights  of  Fate. 


CHILDHOOD'S  INHERITANCE 


Beneath  the  blue  vault  of  a  summer  sky, 
Where  little  clouds  with  white  wings  strove 

to  fly 
Far  from  the  burning  noon,  leagues    long 

there  lay 
Wide  heather  moors  that  stretched  till  far 

away 
Northward  faint  hills  arose,  and  southward 

rolled 
The  ocean  gleaming  with  sun-litten  gold. 

II 

And  'mid  a  great  swell  of  the  purple  waste 
Close  to  the  sea,  a  rock,  which  no  hand 

placed 

Thus  lonely  and  afar  but  which  was  hurled 
A  meteor  from  some  ruin'd  starry  world, 
Rose  dark  and  frowning,  with  its  hoar  sides 

scarred 

By  winter  tempests  and  the  fiercely  hard 
4 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

Gripe  of  the  death-frosts  that  from  north- 
land  heights 

Steal  silent  through  grim  January  nights, 
And  traced  with  furrows  by  the  many  tears 
Of  rainy  autumns  thro'  unnumber'd  years. 

Ill 

The  purple  moorland  waste  alone  stretched 

wide 

Beneath  the  sun — no  thing  was  seen  beside 
To  break  the  long  still  sweep  that  met  the  sky, 
No  mounds  of  rocks  confusedly  piled  high, 
No  single  tree  with  clear  boughs  limned  in 

black 

Against  the  blue,  no  white  and  dusty  track, 
But  only  miles  and  miles  and  miles  that  swept 
Purple  to  where  the  leagueless  waters  leapt. 
The  old  rock  stood  forth  like  an  ancient  throne 
Great  tho'  forgotten,  where  the  winds  alone 
Paid  homage,  fair  in  the  sunshine  of  the  day, 
Solemn  by  night  with  phosphorescent  grey. 

IV 

Around,  the  honey-laden  bees  humm'd  loud 
With  summer  gladness  ;  in  a  mazy  cloud 
Whirling  the  grey  gnats  rose  and  wheeled 

and  spun 
Swift  golden  notes  within  the  golden  sun  ; 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

And  bright  with  all  their  royal  emblazonries 
Flashed  like  swift  darts  of  fire  great  dragon- 
flies. 

Away  across  the  glowing  moors  there  rang 
The  lapwing's  wild  complaint,  and  far   off 

sang 

Hidden  in  blue  a  small  rejoicing  lark 
Singing  against  some  unseen  yearn'd    for 

mark  : 

About  the  heath  the  yellowhammer's  cry 
Piped  sweet  and  clear,  and  often  suddenly, 
With  joyous  chirps  and  jerks,  the  stonechat 

flew 
From  spray  to  spray,  and,  darting  flame-like 

through 

The  scented  heather  spires  to  where  beneath 
The  ants  had  silent  kingdoms  in  the  heath, 
The  green-grey  black-eyed  lizard  flashing  shot 
So  swift  the  hawk  on  poised  wings  saw  it  not. 


O'er  all  the  deep  skies  arch'd  a  wondrous 

space 

Of  ardent  azure  while  the  sun  had  place, 
That  changed  to  dark,  deep  depths  when 

twilight  grey 
Dreamt  into  night  dark'ning  to  one  vast 

shade 

6 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

Of  purple-black,  when  lamplike  star  by  star 
Sparkled  or  shone  or  pulsing  flamed  afar. 
Silence,  save   for   each    blent  and  natural 

sound 
Of  earth  and  air — where  sea-caves  made  the 

ground, 

By  tidal  waves  of  ages  undermined, 
Groan  as  in  travail — when  the  trumpet  wind 
All  uncheck'd  blew — or  swelled  the  incessant 

cries 
Of  tossed  waves  in  their  breaking  agonies. 

VI 

Upon  the  summit  of  the  ancient  stone 
(Whose  birth  was  in  Time's  youth),  and  all 

alone, 

Sat  silent,  tranced,  and  motionless  a  child, 
Like  some  sweet  flow'r  chance  nurtured   in 

the  wild, 

Sat  watching  seabirds,  with  his  eager  eyes 
Full  of  the  deep  blue  of  the  vaulted  skies. 
A  child,  for  he  indeed  was  little  more  ; 
A  child  at  heart,  such  as  whom  make   the 

door 
Of  heaven  seem  open'd  here — to  whom  the 

seas 
Breaking  in  foam,  and  scattered  spray-swept 

trees 

7 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

With  long  arms  wrestling,  and  the  winds  on 

wings 
Invisible  were  wondrous  living  things. 

VII 

A  flower,  for  his  wind-kissed  locks  unshorn 
Shone  yellow  as  gold  daffodils  at  morn  ; 
His  eyes  were  blue  as  in  the  golden  grain 
Windflow'rs  are  blue,  and  soft  as  after  rain 
Violets  that  under  dripping  leaves  have  lain, 
And  tender  as  a  dappled  fawn's  that  yearn 
For  pity  when  the  shrew-mice  from  the  fern 
Shake  down  the  dew-drops;  'neath  his  sunlit 

hair 

As  early  morning,  his  sweet  face  was  fair 
Beneath  the  sun-brown — as  a  white  bud  rose 
That  flushes   faintly  while    the    June    sun 

glows. 

And  even  as  he  gazed  there  deeper  grew 
Within  his  eyes  a  holier  softer  blue, 
Where  some  thought  brooded  in  their  sacred 

shade  ; 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  some  song  were  laid 
Asleep  upon  his  face  that  yet  would  find 
Some  perfect  utterance  for  the  echoing  wind 
To  carry  to  the  birds  ;  in  reverie 
Raptured  he  saw  what   these  could  never 

see. 

8 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

VIII 

Oh  blessed  time,  when  all  God's  world  is  fair 
And  to  the  soul  not  foreign  !  When  the  bare 
Wide  cruel  wastes  of  death-encumber 'd  sea 
Seem  as  the  voice  of  God  that  thunderingly 
Beats   round   the   recreant   earth ;     when 

morning  seems 

The  revelation  of  one's  utmost  dreams 
Of  beauty  ;    when  the  slow  death  of  the  day 
Makes  all  the  west  one  glorious  crimson  way 
For  happy  souls  that  die  ;     and  when  the 

moon, 
Wheeling  her   radiant  orb  thro'  the   dark 

noon 
Of  night,  with  conscious  splendour  makts  the 

seas 

Unutterably  solemn,  and  great  trees 
Lost  in  the  shadow  stand  forth  with   huge 

limbs 
Ghostly  and  clear  ;  when  bird-songs  are  all 

hymns 

Of  joy  and  praise,  and  every  wilding  flower 
Is  known  and  loved  ;  and  when  each  pent- 
up  hour 
Seems    worse   than    wasted    to    the    eager 

heart, 
That  fain  would  hear  the  thrush-wings  strike 

apart 

9 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

The  beech  leaves  in  short  flight  ere  full  and 

clear 
Burst  the  sweet  tide  of  song,  or  watch  the 

deer 
Stand  with  great  eyes  amid  the  fern,  or 

high 
Hearken  the  cuckoo's  music  fill  the  sky. 

IX 

He  seemed  content  just  silently  to  sit 

And  watch  the  breaking  waves,  the  swallows 

flit 

Like  arrows  through  the  air,  save  when  along 
The  summer  wind  swept  bearing  the  sweet 

song 

Of  happy  larks,  or  the  repeated  cries 
Of  plovers  when  they  caught  the    hawk's 

keen  eyes 

Fixt  on  theiryoung — and  then  he  seem'd  to  be 
All  sight  and  ear,  as  yearning  tearfully 
To  beat  with  spirit  pinions  that  fine  air 
Where  at  the  gates  of  heaven  exceeding  fair 
The  bird-songs  rose  and  fell  like  silver  tides, 
Or  else  to  be  as  that  royal  bird  that  prides 
Itself  on  flinching  not  before  the  sun 
But  stares  undaunted,  so  he  might  have  spun 
Downward  with  death  upon  the  fierce  pois'd 

hawk, 

10 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

Saving  the  moorland  brood  :  not  man  or  boy 
Seem'd  he  so  much  as  some  incarnate  joy 
At  one  with  all  things  fair,  flow'r  o'  the  sod 
And  insect;  to  the  Loveliness  calTd  God. 


As  a  red  rose  that  in  full  bloom  doth  spread 
Her  soft  flushed  bosom  to  the  wind  ere  dead 
'Mid  fallen  leaves  her  queenliness  is  gone, 
So  the  fair  westering  day  in  glory  shone 
Heedless  of  coming  night  though  night  was 

nigh. 

The  sunset  burned  afar  ;  the  holy  sky 
Seem'd  filled  with  heavenly  forms  mail'd  in 

clear  gold, 
Guiding  their  purple  rafts  through  seas  that 

rolled 

Immeasurably  far  off  in  crimson  fire. 
The  sea  lay  tranced  watching  the  day  expire, 
And  tired  waves  rose  and  fell  as  though  each 

pray'r 

Of  rest  long  sought  were  granted.     Every- 
where 

God's  blessing  brooded.     And  at  last  the  day 
With  one  long  earthward  smile.dissolved  away, 
Veiling  her  head  in  twilight  robes   where- 
through 

The  palpitating  stars  shone  faint  and  few. 
II 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

XI 

From  out  the  darkening  vault  where   they 

had  hid 
Through  sweltering  heats  of  noon,    swiftly 

there  slid 

Star  after  star,  each  swimming  from  the  near 
Dark  blue  of  heaven,  as  from  a  windless  mere 
Rise  in  calm  morning  twilights  white  and 

clear 

Young  lily  buds  that  open  golden  eyes 
Which  joy  makes  wider  when  the  day  doth 

rise. 

XII 

Far  inland,  with  an  oft-repeated  cry 

The  curlew  wailed,  and  swelled  mysteriously 

Hoarse  sounds  from  the  dim  sea.     The  boy's 

face  grew 

White  in  the  dusky  shade  as  swiftly  flew 
A  great  grey  gull  close  by  him,  like  a  ghost 
Haunting    the     desolate    margins     of    the 

coast : 
Great  moths  came  out,  with  myriad  sharded 

wings 
Huge  beetles  droned,   and  other    twilight 

things 
Hummed  their  dim  lives  away,  and  through 

the  air 

12 


Childhood's  Inheritance 

The  flittermice  wheeled  whistling  :   while  the 

glare 

Of  summer  lightnings  flashing  furtively 
Blazed  for  a  moment  o'er  the  sleeping  sea. 

XIII 

At  last,  with  a  long  sigh,  he  turn'd  and  slid 

From  the  old  rock,  and  for  a  little  hid 

His  face  amongst  the  heather-spires  that 

shook 
With    cool    sweet    dews :     then    one    last 

lingering  look 

Across  the  twilight  seas,  whereo'er  the  moon 
Within  her  crescent  shallop  would  sail  soon, 
When  with  swift  steps  he  turn'd  and  west- 
ward fled 

Across  the  moor  by  a  little  path  that  led, 
Almost  unseen  save  known,  till  suddenly, 
Screened  from  the  vision  of  the  neighbouring 

sea 

Low  in  a  dip  between  two  moorland  mounds 
A  cottage  lay  ;  whereto  with  rapid  bounds 
He  sped,  and,  bearing  with  him  odours  of 

salt  foam, 
Entered  the  little  doorway  of  his  home. 


YOUNG  LOVE 

On  a  flower  in  a  forest; 

A  lily-bosom'd  flower; 
(Where  never  windy  tempest 

Came,  nor  ever  any  shower) — 
A  golden  hour  of  birthtide, 

(The  sky  was  blue,  so  blue  !) 
Left  me  lying  'mid  a  songtide 

Of  birds  of  every  hue; 

Upon  the  white  flower  swaying 

I  laughed  and  sang  in  glee, 
Till  the  thrushes  long  delaying 

Sang  back  deliciously  ; 
And  the  dear  white  cloudlets  sleeping 

Up  in  the  blue,  blue  sky, 
Seem'd  downy  cherubs  peeping 

Between  the  pine  boughs  high. 

A  little  wind  came  blowing 

And  sang  a  wild-wood  song; 
It  whispered  of  the  flowing 

Of  bubbling  streams  along  ; 
I  laughed,  and  stood,  and  rising 

Found  I  had  two  small  wings — 
So  then  I  flew  rejoicing 

Toward  the  water-springs. 


Young  Love 

And  ever  'mid  my  flying, 

(A  little  cloud  I  seem'd  !) 
I  heard  a  great  deep  sighing, 

As  earth  in  trouble  dream'd  ; 
And  when  I  reached  the  river 

The  sound  more  windlike  blew  : 
The  glad  stream  lisped  "  for  ever," 

But  the  sighing  grew  and  grew. 

And  as  I  laughed  and  wonder 'd 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass, 
All  suddenly  it  thunder'd, 

The  sunlight  seem'd  to  pass  : 
A  great  wind  took  and  blew  me 

Across  a  grey  wet  sand, 
And  tho'  I  wept  it  threw  me 

Far  from  the  joyous  land. 

And  now  the  salt  waves  leaping 

Pursue  with  hungry  springs, 
And  baffled,  blind,  and  weeping, 

I  beat  my  draggled  wings  : 
This  was  the  great  deep  sighing 

I  heard  when  I  was  young — 
And  now,  wind-weary,  dying, 

My  last  sob-note  is  sung  ! 


MOTHERHOOD 

Beneath  the  awful  full-orb'd  moon 
The  silent  tracts  of  wild-rice  lay 

Dumb  since  the  fervid  heat  of  noon 
Beat  through  the  burning  Indian  day  ; 

And  still  as  some  far  tropic  sea 

Where  no  winds  murmur,  no  waves  be. 

The  bending  seeded  tops  alone 
Swayed  in  the  sleepy  sultry  wind, 

Which  came  and  went  with  frequent  moan 
As  though  some  dying  place  to  find  ; 

While  at  sharp  intervals  there  rang 

The  fierce  cicala's  piercing  clang. 

Deep  'mid  the  rice-field's  green-hued  gloom 
A  tigress  lay  with  birth-throes  ta'en  ; 

Her  serpent  tail  swept  o'er  her  womb 
As  if  to  sweep  away  the  pain 

That  clutched  her  by  the  gold-barred  thighs 

And  shook  her  throat  with  snarling  cries. 

Her  white  teeth  tore  the  wild-rice  stems  ; 

And  as  she  moaned  her  green  eyes  grew 
Lurid  like  shining  baleful  gems 

With  fires  volcanic  lighten'd  through, 
16 


Motherhood 

While  froth  fell  from  her  churning  jaws 
Upon  her  skin-drawn  gleaming  claws. 

As  in  a  dream  at  some  strange  sound 
The  soul  doth  seem  to  freeze,  so  she 

Lay  fixed  like  marble  on  the  ground, 
Changed  in  a  moment :  suddenly, 

A  far-off  roar  of  savage  might 

Boomed  through  the  silent  sultry  night. 

Her  eyes  grew  large  and  flamed  with  fire  ; 

Her  body  seem'd  to  feel  the  sound 
And  thrill  therewith,  as  thrills  a  lyre 

When  wild  wind  wakes  it  with  a  bound 
And  sweeps  its  string-clasp'd  soul  along 
In  waves  of  melancholy  song. 

Her  answering  howl  swept  back  again 
And  eddied  to  her  far  mate's  ear  ; 

Then  once  again  the  travail-pain 
Beat  at  the  heart  that  knew  no  fear, 

But  some  new  instinct  seem'd  to  rise 

And  yearn  and  wonder  in  her  eyes. 

Did  presage  of  the  coming  birth 
Light  up  her  life  with  mother-love, 

As  winds  along  the  morning  earth 
Whisper  of  golden  dawn  above  ? 

Or  was  it  but  some  sweet  wild  thought 

Remember'd  vaguely  ere  forgot  ? 
i  17 


Some  sweet  wild  thought  of  that  still  night 
When  underneath  the  low-lying  moon, 

Vast,  awful,  in  its  splendour  white, 
Two  tigers  fought  for  love's  last  boon  : 

Two  striped  and  fire-eyed  terrors  strove 

Through  blood  and  foam  to  reach  her  love. 

Of  how  their  fight  so  deathly  still 
Fill'd  all  her  heart  with  savage  glee  ; 

The  lust  to  love,  to  slay,  to  kill, — 
The  fierce  desire  with  him  to  be 

Whose  fangs  all  bloody  from  the  fray 

Should  turn  triumphantly  away  : 

Of  how  at  last  with  one  wild  cry 
One  gript  the  other's  throat  and  breath, 

And,  with  hell  gleaming  thro'  each  eye, 
Shook  the  wild  life  to  loveless  death  ; 

Then  stood  with  waving  tail  and  ire 

Triumphant  changed  to  swift  desire  ? 

But  once  again  the  bitter  strife 
Of  wrestling  sinews  shook  her  there ; 

And  soon  a  little  mewling  life 

Met  her  bewilder'd  yearning  stare, 

Till,  through  her  pain,  the  tigress  strove 

With  licking  tongue  her  love  to  prove. 

No  longer  fearless  flamed  the  light 

Of  great  green  eyes  straight  thro'   the 
gloom, 

18 


Motherhood 

Each  nerve  seem'd  laden  with  affright, 

The  eyes  expectant  of  some  doom  ; 
The  very  moonlight's  steady  glare 
Beat  hungrily  about  her  lair. 

A  beetle  rose,  and  hummed,  and  hung 
A  moment  ere  it  fled — but  great 
In  face  of  peril  to  her  young 

The  tigress  rose  supreme  in  hate 
And,  with  tail  switching  and  lips  drawn, 
The  unreal  foe  scowled  out  upon. 

And  when  a  mighty  cobra,  coiled 
Amid  the  tangled  grass-roots  near, 

Hissed  out  his  hunger,  her  blood  boiled 
With  rage  that  left  no  room  for  fear, 

Till,  with  a  howl  that  shook  the  dark, 

She  sprang  and  left  him  cold  and  stark. 

But  when  a  feeble  hungry  wail 
Smote  on  her  yearning  ears  she  turn'd 

With  velvet  paws  and  refluent  tail 

And  eyes  that  no  more  flashed  and  burn'd 

But  flamed  throughout  the  solemn  night 

Like  lamps  of  soft  sweet  yellow  light 

To  where  her  young  was  ;  where  she  lay 
Silent,  and  full  of  some  strange  love 

Long  hours.  Along  the  star-strewn  way 
A  comet  flashed  and  flamed  above, 

19 


Motherhood 

And  where  great  wastes  of  solemn  blue 
Spread  starless  sailed  the  vast  moon  through, 

No  sound  disturb'd  the  tigress,  save 
Stray  jackals,  or  some  wild  boar's  pant 

Where  thickest  did  the  tall  rice  wave, 
Or  trump  of  distant  elephant ; 

Or,  when  these  fill'd  the  night  no  more, 

The  tiger's  deep  tremendous  roar. 

II 

Vast,  solitary,  gloomful,  dark, 

Primeval  forests  swept  away 
To  where  the  gum  and  stringy  bark 

Against  great  granite  mountains  lay  ; 
And  through  their  depths  the  twilight  stole 
And  dusk'd  still  deeper  each  dark  bole. 

Deep  in  their  pathless  tracks  there  reared 
A  huge  white  gum,  whose  giant  height 

When  winds  infrequent  blew  appeared  • 
To  brush  the  stars  out  from  the  night : 

A  mighty  column,  straight  and  vast, 

Solemn  with  immemorial  past : 

And  at  its  base  upon  a  bed 

Of  fern-tree  leaves  strewn  o'er  the  ground 
A  woman  lay  as  though  lying  dead — 

Dark,  rigid  still,  without  one  sound  : 
Her  fixed  eyes  lifted  not,  nor  saw 
The  great  stars  tremble  in  strange  awe. 
20 


Motherhood 

Crouch'd  near  upon  the  tufted  grass 
Two  wither'd,  long-haired  women  bent 

Two  dusky  bodies.    No  sign  was 
Made  ever  them  between,  nor  went 

From  swift,  slant,  startled  eyes  a  glance 

To  break  the  spell  of  their  deep  trance. 

They    crouch'd    with    heads    bent     down 

between 

Thin,  black  uprisen  knees  ;  their  hair 
Hid  their  dark  faces  like  a  screen, 
And,  scored  with  thorns,  their  feet   lay 

bare : 

Hour  after  hour  had  watched  them  so, 
Three  shadows  fixt  in  sphinx-like  woe. 

At  times  some  wandering  parrot's  voice 
Clanged  through  the  dusk ;    from  dead 
trees  nigh 

A  locust  whirred  its  deafening  noise 

And  shrilled  th'  opossum's  frequent  cry  : 

And  hour  by  hour  some  slim  snake  stole 

Hissing  from  fallen  rotting  bole. 

At  last,  above  the  farthest  range 
The  full  vast  moon  sail'd  o'er  the  trees  : 

The  dead-like  woman  felt  some  change 
Thrill  thro'  her  body  ;  from  her  knees 

Each  shadow- watcher  raised  her  head, 

And  stared  with  eyes  of  moveless  dread. 
31 


Motherhood 

Beyond — within  the  ghastly  shade 

Of  time-forgotten-gums  aglow 
With  phosphorescent  light  that  made 

Each  trunk  burn  taper-like — bent  low, 
A  savage,  bearded  and  long-haired, 
Wild-eyed  across  the  pale  gloom  stared : 

And  when  his  shifting,  restless  eyes 

Caught    the    drawn   woman's   birthtime 
pang, 

He  shrilled  a  wild  yell  to  the  skies 
And  high  with  tossing  arms  upsprang 

Beating  with  eager  blows  a  drum 

And  shivering  with  some  terror  dumb  : 
^ 

The  list'ning  women  once  again 

Shudder' d  and     grew    more   chill    with 

fear — 
Not  at  the  harsh  drum's  maddening  strain 

But  at  the  spirits  that  were  near, 
The  awful  souls  of  hated  dead 
That  creep  round  each  wild  travail-bed ; 

The  white-eyed  sheeted  things  that  steal 
Down  dusky  ways,  and  lie  in  wait 

And  from  the  shade  their  death-darts  wheel 
And  wreak  unseen  their  deathless  hate  : 

For  these  the  fierce  drum  clanged  and  beat 

The  summons  of  a  swift  retreat. 
22 


Motherhood 

What  strange  thoughts  wander'd  thro'  the 
mind 

Of  her  who  writhed  in  travail  sore  ? 
As,  bearing  scents  and  sounds,  a  wind 

Blows  pregnant  from  some  distant  shore, 
So  may  have  blown  some  wind  of  thought 
Memorious  from  a  past  forgot, 

Drifting  across  her  yearning  eyes 
Stray  visions  of  lost  happy  days, 

And  filling  with  strange  vague  surprise 
The  dreary  sameness  of  her  gaze — 

Dim,  sweet  memorial  hours  long  lost, 

Scorched  by  long  suns,  numbed  by  long  frost. 
•\ 

But  soon  the  wafted  breaths  that  blew 
From  off  the  deep  drown' d  past  were 
blown 

Aside  before  some  sharp  wind  new 
Of  sudden  agony.     A  moan 

Shook  on  her  lips,  and  from  her  womb 

A  new  life  crept  to  outer  gloom. 

The  watching  women  rose  and  went 
With  deft  hands  unto  her  :  the  man 

Hush'd  his  tempestuous  instrument, 
And  with  fleet  silent  footsteps  ran 

To  where,  asleep  in  moonlight,  lay 

Some  huts  rough  built  from  branches  stray  : 
33 


Motherhood 

And  soon  thereafter,  in  the  light 
Of  the  full  moon,  the  tribe  stole  out 

And  fill'd  with  cries  the  startled  night — 
Till,  with  claspt  hands  and  one  wild  shout, 

They  circled  round  the  riven  frame 

Of  her  whose  blank  eyes  knew  no  shame. 

But  as  some  feeble  strength  came  back 
She  stretched  out  thin  and  claw-like  hands, 

With  eyes  as  one  who  on  a  rack 
Yearns  for  mercy,  or  on  strange  lands 

Lifts  outspread  arms  towards  his  own — 

So  yearn'd  she,  with  a  mother's  moan. 

Within  her  famish'd  eyes  no  more 
The  hunger  of  the  body  burned, 

But  on  the  fruit  her  womb  long  bore 
Their  light  unspeakable  was  turned  : 

And  all  the  hunger  of  her  love 

Lighten'd  the  child's  eyes  from  above. 

Vast,  solitary,  gloomful,  dark, 

Primeval  forests  swept  away 
To  where  the  gum  and  stringy  bark 

Against  the  granite  mountains  lay  : 
Till,  as  the  great  moon  grew  more  wan, 
Stirred  the  first  heart -beats  of  the  dawn. 

And  o'er  the  pathless  tracks  where  reared 
The  huge  white  gum,  whose  boughs  had 
seen 

24 


Motherhood 

The  woman's  birth-throes,  light  appeared 

And  lit  its  leaves  with  golden  green, 
And  shone  upon  the  straight  trunk  vast. 
Solemn  with  immemorial  past. 


in 

Faint  scent  of  lilies  filled  the  room, 
Hush'd  in  sweet  silence  and  asleep 

Within  the  dim  delicious  gloom  : 
No  windy  lamp-flame  strove  to  leap 

Amidst  the  moveless  shade,  but  faint 

A.  soft  light  burned  from  censer  quaint. 

And  dimly  through  the  gloom  loomed  large 
A  carven  bed  that  seem'd  to  sail 

Like  ghost  of  some  great  funeral  barge 
'Mid  shadow-seas  no  men  might  hail — 

Till  from  its  depths  suffused  with  night 

The  wan  sheets  dreamed  to  gleaming  white. 

• 

And  lo,  half -hid,  like  some  white  flow'r 
Breasting  the  driven  snow,  there  lay 
Expectant  of  the  awful  hour 

A  waiting  girl,  who,  far  away 
Beyond  where  vision  reacheth,  gazed 
With  eyes  by  some  strange  glory  dazed. 
25 


Motherhood 

Like  two  strange  dreams  they  were,  wherein 
Played  subtle  lights  of  other  life, 

Deep  depths,  scarce  cognisant  of  sin, 
Serene,  beyond  all  clamorous  strife — 

Two  seas  unsoundable  as  night 

Yet  lit  to  utmost  depths  with  light. 

* 

Silent  she  lay,  as  one  who  low 
In  some  dim  vast  deserted  nave 

Bends  rapt  in  mingled  love  and  woe 
While  the  wild,  passionate,  sweeping  wave 

Of  organ  music  sweeps  and  rolls — 

The  burden  of  all  suffering  souls. 

Silent  she  lay,  for  as  a  palm 

Within  a  thirsty  desert  feels 
A  low  wind  break  the  deathly  calm 

And  drinks  each  rain- drop  as  it  steals 
Between  its  dry  parch'd  leaves,  so  she 
Felt  God's  breath  fill  her  fitfully. 

The  soft  low  wind  of  life  divine 
Entered  the  darkened  womb,  and  there 

It  cleft  the  mystic  bands  that  twine 
The  folded  bud  of  childhood  fair, 

Which,  as  an  open'd  lily,  fell 

From  death  to  life's  strange  miracle. 
26 


Motherhood 

O  perfect  bud  of  human  flow'r 

Immaculately  sweet  and  pure, 
Shall  God's  first  influence  in  this  hour 

Through  all  thy  coming  life  endure, 
And  thou  expand  to  perfect  bloom 
Untouched  by  crash  of  neighbouring  doom  ? 

Or,  O  sweet  perfect  human  bud, 

Shall  rains  thee  dash,  and  wild  winds  sweep 
Thy  fair  head  to  the  mire  and  mud, 

And,  with  praying  hands,  thy  mother  weep 
Such  tears  of  anguish  as  no  pain 
Shall  ever  wring  from  her  again  ? 

Soft,  soft,  the  wind  of  life  doth  breathe  : — 
Some  angel  surely  fans  the  while 

The  faint  new-litten  spark  beneath, 
And  prayeth  with  a  piteous  smile 

That  it  may  live,  and  living  be 

A  victor  'midst  humanity. 

Silent  she  lay  who  soon  should  give 
This  life  to  life  :  her  secret  thought 

Strove  'mid  the  happy  past  to  live 
Again  that  day  she  ne'er  forgot, 

That  day  when  her  young  love  took  wing 

From  maidenhood's  sweet-scented  spring  : 
27 


Motherhood 

When  hand  in  hand  she  trod  the  ways 
Flow'r-strewn  with  him,  and  felt  his  eyes 

Turn'd  full  on  her  with  such  deep  gaze 
Of  love  triumphant,  that  the  skies 

Seem'd  but  a  hollow  dome  where  rang 

Sweet  tumult,  as  though  angels  sang  : 

How  the  hush'd  drowsy  afternoon 
Slipt  through  the  summertide,  till  low 

In  the  dark  tranquil  east  the  moon 
Rose  vast  and  yellow,  and  more  slow 

The  flaming  star  that  lights  the  west 

Lulled  the  sea-waters  to  their  rest : 


How  in  the  bridal  chamber  shone 
No  other  than  the  full-moon's  light, 

And  how  between  the  dusk  and  dawn 
A  wind  of  passion  filPd  the  night 

And  bore  resistless  soul  with  soul 

On  to  love's  utmost  crowning  goal. 

Silent  she  was,  but  as  her  mind 
Made  real  once  more  that  perfect  day 

Her  body  trembled,  as  a  wind 
Had  blown  upon  her  where  she  lay, 

And  in  her  eyes  serene  and  deep 

Joys  unforgotten  woke  from  sleep. 
28 


Motherhood 

As  on  a  mighty  midnight  sea 
Wind-swept,  and  lit  by  a  white  glare 

Where  intermittent  lightnings  flee 
And  deafened  by  the  thunderous  air 

Split  up  with  tumult,  one  great  wave 

Doth  rise  and  scorn  an  ocean-grave, 

And,  gathering  volume  as  it  rolls, 
Doth  sweep  triumphant  till  at  last 

It  thunders  up  the  sounding  shoals 
Of  stricken  promontory  aghast, 

And  leaves  its  crown  of  foam  where  high 

The  cliffs  stare  seaward  steadily  : 

So  from  love's  throbbing  pulsing  sea 
All  lightning-lit  by  passion,  reared 

A  mighty  wave  resistlessly 
Of  mother-love,  which  as  it  neared 

Fulfilment  broke  in  one  glad  cry 

Of  sweet  half-wond'ring  ecstasy. 

Hush  !  the  great  sea  is  still,  and  low 
The  night-wind  wanders ;  hush,  for  calm 

The  mother  waits  the  body's  woe. 
Silent  she  lay  ;  mayhap  a  psalm 

Of  sacred  joy  sang  deep  within 

The  maiden  heart  unstained  by  sin. 
29 


Motherhood 

Mayhap  the  inward  vision  saw 
The  unborn  soul  arise  and  stand 

Great  in  a  people's  love  and  awe, 
Crown'd  not  with  gold  by  human  hand 

But  sacred  with  the  bays  that  wait 

The  victor  in  the  strife  of  Fate  : 

And  deeper  still,  beheld  afar 
The  billows  of  the  ages  sweep 

A  mightier  soul  from  star  to  star — 
So  ever  upwards  through  the  steep 

Dim  ways  of  God's  unfathom'd  will 

But  aye  by  fuller  periods  still. 


So  shall  it  be  for  ever  :  evermore 

The  mystic  wheel  of  mother-love  shall  whirl 

Around  the  world,  and  link  these  three  again. 


THE  REDEEMER 

I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth — but  out 

of  the  depths  of  time 
He  hath  not  called  to  me  yet.     But  from  th' 

immeasurable  tracts 
That  widen  unending  to  where  beginneth 

eternity 
Falleth   at   times   a  voice,   heart -thrilling, 

soul-piercing,  life-giving  ; 
High  sometimes  and  clear,  as  a  lark  singing 

in  a  holy  dawn, 
Hush'd  and  afar  off  again  as  a  dreaming 

wave  upon  seas 
Lit  by  a  low  vast  moon,  and  windlessly 

sleeping,  but  ever 
Sweet   with   a   human   love,    and   full   of 

ineffable  yearning, 
And  crying  of  soul  unto  soul  from  infinite 

deep  unto  deep. 
And  sometimes  I  look  and  gaze  out  upon 

uttermost  darkness 
And  hear  the  wail  of  desolate  winds  moaning 

around  the  world — 


The  Redeemer 

Till  the  darkness  shivers  to  light,  and 
clashing  thro'  earth  and  heaven 

I  hear  great  wings  make  music,  and  mar- 
vellous thunderous  songs 

Shout  "  Thy  Redeemer  liveth,  O  human 
soul,  and  crieth  for  thee  1 " 


LINES  TO  E.  A.  S. 

Fair  in  my  sight  as  white  lilies  that  shine  in 

the  sunrise  : 
Sweeter  than  flow'rs  in  the  meadows   that 

scent  the  mornings  of  spring  : 
Dearer  than  vision  of  truth,  for  thou  art  the 

truth  revealed, 
Dearer  than  faith,  for  thou  art  the  crown 

of  aspiration, 
Dearer  than  hope,  for  of  hope  thou  art  the 

fulfilment ! 
O  love,  love,  love,  thou  hast  turned  the 

darkness  of  the  world 
Into  ineffable   light,  and   a  1   its    intricate 

ways 
To  straight,  clear  paths  that  lead  from  the 

depths  to  the  heavens. 
The  flower  of  my  soul  sways  high  in  the  wind 

of  thy  love, 
Glowing   with   passionate   fervour   through 

fulness  of  joy  ; 
Soul  with  soul  are  we  wedded,  beyond  the 

decay  of  the  body, 

33  c 


Lines  to  E.  A.  S. 

And  spirit  hath  spirit  touched,  beyond  the 

confines  of  flesh  : 
Desire  with  mighty  wings  hath  swept  the 

chords  of  our  being, 
And  flesh  and  spirit  are  one  in  the  mystic 

union  of  love  ! 


34 


SONNETS 

1882-1886 


SPRING  WIND 

O  full-voiced  herald  of  immaculate  Spring, 
With  clarion  gladness  striking  every  tree 
To  answering  raptures,  as  a  resonant  sea 
Fills  rock-bound  snores  with  thunders  echo- 
ing— 
O  thou,  each  beat  of  whose    tempestuous 

wing 
Shakes  the  long  winter-sleep  from  hill  and 

lea, 

And  rouses  with  loud  reckless  jubilant  glee 
The  birds  that  have  not  dared  as  yet    to 
sing: 

O  Wind  that  comest  with  prophetic  cries, 
Hast  thou  indeed  beheld  the  face  that  is 
The  joy  of  poets  and  the  glory  of  birds — 
Spring's  face  itself  :   hast  thou  'neath  bluer 

skies 
Met  the  warm  lips  that  are  the  gates  of 

bliss, 

And  heard  June's  leaf-like  murmur  of 
sweet  words  ? 


37 


A  MIDSUMMER  HOUR 

There  comes  not  through  the    o'erarching 

cloud  of  green 

A  harsh,  an  envious  sound  to  jar  the  ear  : 
But  vaguely  swells  a  hum,  now  far,  now 

near, 
Where    the    wild    honey-bee    beyond     the 

screen 
Of  beech-leaves  haunts  the  field  of  flowering 

bean. 

Far,  far  away  the  low  voice  of  the  weir 
Dies  into  silence.    Hush'd  now  is  the  clear 
Sweet   song   down-circling   from   the    lark 
unseen. 

Beyond  me,  where  I  lie,  the  shrew-mice  run 

A-patter  where  of  late  the  streamlet's  tones 

Made  music  :  on  a  branch  a  drowsy  bird 

Sways  by  the  webs  that  midst  dry  pools  are 

spun — 
Yet  lives  the  streamlet  still,  for  o'er  flat 

stones 

The  slow  lapse  of  the  gradual  wave  is 
heard. 

38 


PAIN 

I  am  God's  eldest : — I  and  Love  are  twin  ; 
We  look  for  ever  in  the  other's  face  ; 
Together  our  flight  wings   throughout  all 

space — 

Sun,  Star,  Man,  God,  alike  we  dwell  therein  ; 
Some  far-off  goal  together  strive  to  win. 
But  here  on  earth  I  leave  the   mightier 

trace, 
Clasp   hands   more   close   with    all    the 

human  race, 
And  weave  the  shadow- webs  of  joy  and  sin. 

And  most  I  dwell  in  the  clear  skies  at  dawn, 
In  marvellous  eves  when  all  the  stars  are 

bright, 

In  music  ere  the  sweetest  chord  is  gone, 
In   woman's   beauty   still   unsoiled    and 

white, 

In  children's  slumber  in  the  morning  wan, 
And   lovers'  vows  and  yearnings  in  the 
night. 


39 


As  day  doth  live  beyond  the  sunset  skies 
So  life  may  wait  us  at  the  silent  grave  : 
Not  windless  is  the  sea  because  there  rave 
Not   always   the   great   storm-wind's    har- 
monies. 
There  may  be  light  too  strong  for   earthly 

eyes ; 
There  may  be  hands  to  succour  and   to 

save 
From    Death's   indifferent    o'erwhelming 

wave  ; 

Nay,  Death  may  lift  to  some   divine  sur- 
prise ! 

There  may  be  music  beyond  instruments, 
And  Spring  for  ev'ry  frost-nipt  shapeless 

clod, 
There  may  be  mightier  love  sacraments 

Than  e'er  were  seen  on  consecrated  sod  ; 
A  man  there  may  be  with  Christ's   linea- 
ments 
And  'mid  the  wheels  of  Fate  a  living  God. 


40 


TO  D.  G.  ROSSETTI 


From  out  the  darkness  cometh  never  a  sound: 
No  voice  doth  reach  us  from  the  silent 

place  : 
There  is  one  goal  beyond  life's  blindfold 

race, 

For  victor  and  for  victim — burial-ground. 
O  friend,  revered,  belov'd,  mayst  thou  have 

found 

Beyond  the  shadowy  gates  a  yearning  face, 
A  beckoning  hand  to  guide  thee    with 

swift  pace 
From  the  dull  wave  Lethean  gliding  round. 

Hope   dwelt  with  thee,   not  Fear ;    Faith, 

not  Despair  : 
But  little  heed  thou  hadst  of  the  grave's 

gloom. 

What  though  thy  body  lies  so  deeply  there 
Where  the  land  throbs  with  tidal   surge 

and  boom, 

Thy  soul  doth  breathe  some  Paradisal  air 
And  Rest  long  sought  thou  hast   where 
amaranths  bloom. 
41 


TO  D.  G.  ROSSETTI 

II 

Yet  even  if  Death  indeed  with  pitiful  sign 
Bade  us  drink  deep  of  some    oblivious 

draught, 
Is  it  not  well  to  know,   ere  we    have 

quaffed 

The  soul-deceiving  poppied  anodyne, 
That  not  in  vain  erewhile  we  drink,   the 

wine 

Of  life — that  not  all  blankly  or  in  craft 
Of  evil  went  the  days  wherein  we  laughed 
And  joyed  i'   the  sun    unknowing    aught 
divine  ? 

Not  so  thy  doom,  whatever  fate  betide  : 
Not  so  for  thee,  O  poet-heart  and  true, 
Who   fearless   watched,    as   evermore    it 

grew, 
The  shadow  of  Death  creep  closer  to   thy 

side. 

A  glory  with  thy  ebbing  life  withdrew 
And  we  inherit  now  its  deathless  Pride. 
42 


FROM 

EARTH'S  VOICES 

1884 


MADONNA  NATURA 

I  love  and  worship  thee  in  that  thy  ways 
Are  fair,  and  that  the  glory  of  past  days 

Haloes  thy  brightness  with  a  sacred  hue. 
Within  thine  eyes  are  dreams  of    mystic 

things, 

Within  thy  voice  a  subtler  music  rings 
Than  ever  mortal  from  the    keen  reeds 

drew ; 
Thou  weav'st  a  web  which  men  have  called 

Death 
But  Life  is  in  the  magic  of  thy  breath. 

The  secret  things  of  Earth  thou   knowest 

well ; 

Thou  seest  the  wild  bee  build  his  narrow  cell, 
The  lonely  eagle  wing  through  lonely  skies. 
The  lion  on  the  desert  roam  afar, 
The  glow-worm  glitter  like  a  fallen  star, 

The  hour-lived  insect  as  it  hums  and  flies  ; 
Thou  seest  men  like  shadows  come  and  go, 
And  all  their  endless  dreams  drift  to  and 
fro. 

45 


Madonna  Natura 

In  thee  is  strength,   endurance,    wisdom, 

truth: 

Thou  art  above  all  mortal  joy  and  ruth, 
Thou  hast  the  calm  and  silence  of   the 

night  : 

Mayhap  thou  seest  what  we  cannot  see, 
Surely  far  off  thou  hear'st  harmoniously 

Echoes  of  flawless  music  infinite, 
Mayhap  thou  feelest  thrilling  through  each 

sod 
Beneath  thy  feet  the  very  breath  of  God. 

Monna  Natura,  fair  and  grand  and  great 
I  worship  thee,  who  art  inviolate  : 

Through  thee  I  reach  to  things   beyond 

this  span 

Of  mine  own  puny  life,  through  thee  I  learn 
Courage  and  hope,  and  dimly  can  discern 

The  ever  noble  grades  awaiting  man  : 
Madonna,  unto  thee  I  bend  and  pray — 
Saviour,  Redeemer  thou,  whom  none   can 
slay  ! 

No  human  fanes  are  dedicate  to  thee, 
But  thine  the  temples  of  each  tameless  sea, 
Each   mountain-height   and   forest-glade 

and  plain : 

No  priests  with  daily  hymns  thy    praises 
sing, 

46 


Madonna  Natura 

But  far  and  wide  the  wild  winds  chanting 

swing, 
And  dirge  the  sea-waves  on  the  changeless 

main, 
While  songs  of  birds  fill  all  the  fields  and 

woods, 
And  cries  of  beasts  the  savage  solitudes. 

Hearken,  Madonna,  hearken  to  my  cry  ; 
Teach  me  through  metaphors  of  liberty, 
Till  strong  and  fearing  nought  in  life  or 

death 

I  feel  thy  sacred  freedom  through  me  thrill, 
Wise,  and  defiant,  with  unquench£d  will 
Unyielding,  though  succumb  the   mortal 

breath — 

Then  if  I  conquer,  take  me  by  the  hand 
And  guide  me  onward  to  thy    Promised 
Land! 


47 


DURING  MUSIC 

0  tears  that  well  up  to  my  eyes, 

And  vague  thoughts  wandering  thro'  my 

brain, 

Whence  come  ye  ?     From  what  alien  skies, 
From   what   dim   sorrow,   what    strange 
pain  ? 

1  hear  old  memories  astir 

In  dusky  twilights  of  the  past : 

0  voices  telling  me  of  her, 

My  soul,  whom  now  I  know  at  last : 

1  know  her  not  by  any  name, 

But  she  with  hope  or  fear  is  pale  ; 
I  see  her  ere  this  body  came 

From  mortal  womb  with  mortal  wail. 

Later  and  later  through  long  years, 
Through  generations  of  dead  men, 

I  see  her  in  her  mist  of  tears, 
I  see  her  in  her  shroud  of  pain. 

I  see  her  whom  the  seons  have  raised 
From  one  dim  birth  to  endless  life  ; 

I  see  her  strive,  regain,  re-fail 
Forever  in  the  endless  strife. 
48 


During  Music 

I  see  her,  soul  of  man,  and  soul 
Of  woman,  and  in  many  lands  : 

Her  eyes  are  fixt  on  some  far  goal 
But  she  hath  neither  thrall  nor  bands. 

On  one  day  yet  to  come  I  see 
This  body  pale  and  cold  and  dead : 

The  spirit  once  again  made  free 
Hovers  triumphant  overhead. 

Again,  again,  O  endless  day, 
I  see  her  in  new  forms  pace  on, 

And  ever  with  her  on  the  way 
Fair  kindred  souls  in  unison. 

O  wandering  thoughts  within  my  brain, 

O  voices  speaking  low  to  me, 
O  music  sweet  with  stingless  pain, 

Bring  clear  the  vision  that  I  see  ! 

O  ecstasy  of  sound,  O  pain  ! 

Too  sad  my  heart,  too  sad  the  tears 
It  bringeth  to  my  eyes  again, 

Too  strange  the  hopes,  too  strange  the 
fears. 


49 


SHADOWED  SOULS 

If  the  soul  withdraweth  from  the  body,  what  profit 
thereafter  hath  a  man  of  all  the  days  of  his  life  ? 

She  died  indeed,  but  to  him  her  breath 
Was  more  than  a  light  blown  out  by  death  : 
He  knew  that  they  breathed  the  self-same 

air, 
That  not  midst  the  dead  was  her  pale  face 

fair 
But  that  she  waited  for  him  somewhere. 

To  some  dead  city,  or  ancient  town, 
Where  the  mould'ring  towers  were  crumbling 

down, 

Or  in  some  old  mansion  habited 
By  dust  and  silence  and  things  long  dead, 
He  knew  the  Shadows  of  Souls  were  led. 

For  years  he  wandered  a  weary  way, 
His  eyes  shone  sadder,  his  hair  grew  grey  : 
But  still  he  knew  that  she  lived  for  whom 
No  grave  lay  waiting,  no  white  carv'd  tomb, 
No  earthly  silence,  no  voiceless  gloom. 
50 


Shadowed  Souls 

But  once  in  a  bitter  year  he  came 

To  an  old  dying  town  with  a  long    dead 

name : 

That  eve,  as  he  walked  thro'  the  dusty  ways 
And  the  echoes  woke  in  the  empty  place, 
He  came  on  a  Shadow  face  to  face. 

It  looked,  but  uttered  no  word  at  all 
Then  beckoned  him  into  an  old  dim  hall : 
And  lo,  as  soon  as  he  passed  between 
The  pillars  with  age  and  damp  mould  green 
His  eyes  were  dazed  by  a  strange    wild 
scene. 

A  thousand  lamps  fill'd  the  place  with  light. 
And  fountains  glimmered  faerily  bright ; 
But  never  a  single  sound  was  heard, 
The  dreadful  silence  was  never  stirred, 
Not  even  the  breath  of  a  single  word 

Came  from  the  shadowy  multitude. 

More  dense  than  leaves  in  a  summer  wood, 

Than  the  sands  where  the  swift  tides  ebb 

and  flow ; 

But  ever  the  Shades  moved  to  and  fro 
As  windless  waves  on  the  sea  will  go. 

Then  he  who  had  come  to  the  Shadow-land 
Swift  strode  by  many  a  group  and  band ; 


Shadowed  Souls 

But  never  a  glimpse  he  caught  of  her; 

In  fleeting  shadow  or  loiterer, 

For  whom  the  earth  held  no  sepulchre. 

He  knew  that  she  was  not  dead  whom  he 

So  loved  with  bitterest  memory, 

To  whom  through  anguish'd  years  he  had 

prayed ; 

Yet  came  she  never,  no  sign  was  made, 
No  touch  on  his  haggard  frame  was  laid. 

At  last  to  an  empty  room  he  came, 
And  there  he  saw  in  letters  of  flame  : 
"  This  is  a  palace  no  king  controls, 
A  place  unwritten  in  human  scrolls, — 
This  is  the  Haunt  of  Shadowed  Souls  : 

"  If  thy  Shadow-soul  be  here  no  more, 
Seek  thine  old  life's  deserted  shore  : 
And  there,  mayhap,  thou  wilt  find  again, 
Recovered  now  through  sorrow  and  pain; 
The  Soul  thou  didst  thy  most  to  have  slain." 


SONG 

"  To  suffer  grief  is  to  be  strong; 
And  to  be  strong  is  beautiful  and  rare  " — 
'Twas  in  thy  court,  O  Love,  I  learned  it 

there, 
This  sad  sweet  song  ! 

No  one  man  dwells  thy  ways  among, 

Who  shall  not  learn  thy  thousand  ways 

of  grief 
Or  how  wild  fears  succeed  each    poor 

relief 
In  dark'ning  throng : 

There  too  a  man  may  learn  to  put  away 
The    crowned    summit    of    his     heart's 

desire ; 

But  O,  the  bitter  burning  of  love's  fire — 
Its  bitterer  ashes  grey  ! 


53 


SLEEP 

While  sways  the  restless  sea 

Beyond  the  shore, 
And  the  waves  sing  listlessly 

Their  secret  lore, 
And  the  soft  fragrant  air 

From  off  the  deep 
Scarce  stirs  thine  outspread  hair,- 
Sleep ! 

Far  up  in  purple  skies 

Great  lamps  hang  out, 
White  flames  that  fall  and  rise 

In  motley  Tout ; 
While  fall  their  silvern  rays 

O'er  crag  and  steep, 
Woodlands  and  meadow-ways, — 
Sleep ! 

While  the  moon's  amber  gleams 

Gild  rock  and  flow'r, 
Let  no  untimely  dreams 

Possess  the  hour : 
Let  no  vague  fears  the  heart 

'Mid  slumber  keep, 
In  dreams  love  hath  no  smart, — 
Sleep ! 
54 


MATER   DOLOROSA 

She,  brooding  ever,  dwells  amidst  the  hills  ; 
Her   kingdom   is    call'd    Solitude ;     her 

name — 

More  terrible  than  desolating  flame — 
Is  Silence  ;  and  her  soul  is  Pain. 
Day  after  day  some  weightier  sorrow  fills 
Her  heart,  and  each  new  hour  she  knows 
The  birth  of  further  woes. 
And  whoso,  journeying,  goes 
Unto  the  land  wherein  she  dwells  for  aye 
Shall  not  come  thence  until  have   passed 

away 

For  evermore  the  bright  joy  of  his  years. 
She  giveth  rest,  but  giveth  it  with  tears, 
Tears  that  more  bitter  be 
Than  drops  of  the  Dead  Sea  : 
But  never  gives  she  peace  to  any  soul 
For  how  could  she  that  rarest  gift  bestow 

Who  well  doth  know 
That  though  in  dreams  she  can  attain  the 

goal, 

In  dreams  alone  her  steps  can    thither 
go:— 

55 


Mater  Dolorosa 

Solitude,  Silence,  Pain,  for  all  who  live 
Within  the  twilit  realms  that  are  her  own, 
And  even  Rest  to  those  who  seek   her 

throne, 

But  these  her  gifts  alone  : 
Peace  hath  she  not  and  therefore   cannot 
give. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  THRUSH 

When   the   beech^trees   are   green   in    the 

woodlands, 

And  the  thorns  are  whitened  with  may, 
And    the    meadow-sweet    blows    and    the 

yellow  gorse  blooms 
I  sit  on  a  wind-waved  spray, 
And  I  sing  through  the  livelong  day 
From  the  golden  dawn  till  the    sunset 
comes  and  the   shadows  of   gloaming 
grey. 

And  I  sing  of  the  joy  of  the  woodlands; 

And  the  fragrance  of  wild-wood  flowers; 
And  the  song  of  the  trees  and  the  hum  of 

the  bees 

In  the  honeysuckle  bowers, 
And  the  rustle  of  showers 
And  the  voice  of  the  west  wind  calling  as 
through  glades  and  green  branches  he 
scours. 

When  the  sunset  glows  over  the  woodlands 
More  sweet  rings  my  lyrical  cry, 

57 


The  Song  of  the  Thrush 

With  the  pain  of  my  yearning  to  be  'mid 

the  burning 

And  beautiful  colours  that  lie 
'Midst  the  gold  of  the  sun-down  sky, 
Where  over  the  purple  and  crimson  and 
amber  the  rose-pink  cloud-curls  fly. 

Sweet,   sweet   swells   my   voice   thro'    the 

woodlands, 

Repetitive,  marvellous,  rare : 
And  the  song-birds  cease   singing  as   my 

music  goes  ringing 
And  eddying  echoing  there, 
Now  wild  and  now  debonair; 
Now  fill'd  with  a  tumult  of  passion  that 
throbs  like  a  pulse  in  the  hush'd  warm 
air! 


THE  SONG  OF  FLOWERS 

What  is  a  bird  but  a  living  flower  ? 
A  flower  but  the  soul  of  some  dead  bird  ? 
And  what  is  a  weed  but  the  dying  breath 
Of  a  perjured  word  ? 

A  flower  is  the  soul  of  a  singing-bird, 

Its  scent  is  the  breath  of  an  old-time  song  : 

But  a  weed  and  a  thorn  spring  forth  each 

day 
For  a  new-done  wrong. 

Dead  souls  of  song-birds,  thro'  the  green 

grass, 

Or  deep  in  the  midst  of  the  golden  grain, 
In  woodland  valley,  where  hill-streams  pass, 
We  flourish  again. 

We  flowers  are  the  joy  of  the  whole  wide 

earth, 

Sweet  nature's  laughter  and  secret  tears — 
Whoso  hearkens  a  bird  in  its  spring-time 

mirth 

The  song  of  a  flow'r-soul  hears  ! 
59 


SONG  OF  THE  CORNFIELDS 

For  miles  along  the  sunlit  lands 
We  sway  in  waves  of  gold, 
A  yellow  sea  that  past  the  strands 
Has  inland  rolled. 

The  sweet  dews  feed  us  thro'  the  night, 
The  soft  winds  blow  around ; 
The  dayshine  gladdens  us  with  light 
And  stores  the  ground. 

We  feed  a  thousand  happy  birds, 
The  field-mice  have  their  share — 
Surely  to  these  the  reaping  swords 
Some  grains  can  spare. 

The  deep  joy  of  the  joyous  earth, 
We  feel  it  throb  and  thrill ; 
The  sweet  return  of  natural  mirth, 
Spring's  miracle. 

All  lands  rejoice  in  us,  we  have 
A  glory  such  as  kings 
Might  envy — b  at  our  gold  we  wave 
For  humbler  things. 
60 


Song  of  the  Cornfields 

Our  golden  harvest  is  for  those 
Who  strive  and  toil  through  life, 
Who  feel  its  agonies,  its  throes, 
Its  want,  its  strife. 

O'er  all  the  broad  lands  'neath  the  sun, 
We  spring,  we  ripen,  glow ; 
The  seasons  change,  the  swift  days  run,- 
Again  we  grow. 


6t 


THE  FIELD  MOUSE 

When  the  moon  shines  o'er  the  corn 
And  the  beetle  drones  his  horn, 
And  the  flittermice  swift  fly, 
And  the  nightjars  swooping  cry, 
And  the  young  hares  run  and  leap, 
We  waken  from  our  sleep. 

And  we  climb  with  tiny  feet 
And  we  munch  the  green  corn  sweet 
With  startled  eyes  for  fear 
The  white  owl  should  fly  near, 
Or  long  slim  weasel  spring 
Upon  us  where  we  swing. 

We  do  no  hurt  at  all : 
Is  there  not  room  for  all 
Within  the  happy  world  ? 
All  day  we  lie  close  curled 
In  drowsy  sleep,  nor  rise 
Till  through  the  dusky  skies 
The  moon  shines  o'er  the  corn, 
And  the  beetle  drones  his  horn. 

62 


THE  WEST  WIND 

I  come  from  out  the  West, 
And  I  breathe  a  breath  of  rest, 
And  the  sweet  birds  greet  me  singing 
From  every  tiny  nest. 

I  am  the  wind  of  flow'rs — 
I  haunt  the  wild-wood  bow'rs — 
And  when  my  song  is  ringing 
Spring  knows  her  sweetest  hours. 

But  when  the  autumn  days 
Grow  short,  I  rise  and  race 
Thro'  all  the  woodlands,  flinging 
Strewn  leaves  o'er  every  place. 

When  winter  conies  once  more, 
With  deep  tumultuous  roar 
I  sweep  o'er  ocean,  bringing 
Wild  tempests  to  each  shore. 


HYMN  OF  THE  FORESTS 

We  are  the  harps  which  the  winds  play, 

A  myriad  tones  in  one  vast  sound 

That  the  earth  hearkens  night  and  day — 

A  ceaseless  music  swaying  round 

The  whole  wide  world,  each  voiceful  tree 

Echoing  the  wave-chants  of  the  sea. 

For  even  as  inland  waves  that  moan 
But  break  not  'midst  the  unflowing  green 
Our  trees  are  :  and  when  tempests  groan 
And  howl  our  frantic  boughs  between, 
Our  tumult  is  as  when  the  deep 
Struggles  with  winds  that  o'er  it  sweep. 

'Neath  bitter  northern  skies  we  stand, 
Silent  amidst  the  unmelting  snows, 
Gaunt  warders  of  the  desolate  land  : 
Silent,  save  when  the  keen  wind  blows 
The  drifting  wreaths  about  our  feet, 
Then  moan  we  mournful  music  sweet. 

Or  in  vast  ancient  woods  of  beech 
Far  south  we  make  Spring's  dearest  home 
The  haunt  of  myriad  songsters,  each 
A  living  flow'r  made  free  to  roam 
64 


Hymn  of  the  Forests 

From  bough  to  bough,  and  thence  we  send 
A  forest -music  without  end. 

'Neath  tropic  suns  and  ceaseless  glow 
With  orient  splendours  we  are  filled  : 
'Midst  Austral  solitudes  we  grow, 
Where  seldom  human  voice  has  thrilled  : 
And  ever  and  where'er  we  rise 
We  chant  our  ancient  harmonies. 

For  aye  the  sea  sings  loud  and  long 

In  strange  and  solemn  mystery 

A  wonderful  transmitted  song — 

The  echo  of  all  history — 

This  song  o'er  all  earth's  lands  we  sing 

While  round  the  circling  seasons  swing. 


SONG  OF  THE  DESERTS 

Wide,  open,  free,  unbounded,  vast, 
We  leagueless  stretch  the  wide  world  o'er  : 
Above  us  sweeps  the  desert  blast, 
Or  booms  the  lion's  reverberate  roar 
Or  the  long  howl  of  wolves  that  race 
Like  shadows  o'er  the  moonlit  space 
In  tireless,  swift,  relentless  chase. 

We  are  the  haunt  of  all  the  winds, 
O'er  us  as  o'er  the  sea  they  sweep 
In  boundless  freedom  :  each  blast  finds 
A  leagueless  waste  whereo'er  to  leap 
And  race  unchecked, — and  day  and  night 
We  hear  the  wild  rush  of  their  flight, 
A  desert-music  infinite. 

Ten  thousand  leagues  of  grassy  plain 
We  stretch,  or  trackless  wastes  of  sand  : 
O'er  us  no  mortal  king  doth  reign, 
But  Bedouin  or  savage  band 
And  wild-eyed  beasts  of  prey  alone 
Wander  about  our  tameless  zone  ; 
That  bondage  never  yet  hath  known. 
66 


A   RECORD 
(A  Fragment) 

For,  God  wot,  not  the  less  a  thing  is  true 
Though  every  wight  may  not  it  chance  to  see. 

CHAUCER. 

I  hear  the  dark  tempestuous  sea 
Boom  through  the  night  monotonously, 
The  hoarse  faint  cry  of  breaking  waves 
Lashed  by  the  wind  that  moans  and  raves 
Upon  the  deep — I  hear  them  fall 
Against  cliff -bases  smooth  and  tall, 
A  music  wild,  funereal. 

* 
I  seem  to  listen  to  a  sound 

That  circles  earth  for  ever  round, 
The  dirge  of  an  eternal  song, 
A  dull  deep  music  swept  along 
The  listening  coasts  of  many  lands, 
Sighed  mournfully  o'er  level  sands, 
Or  thunder'd  amidst  rocky  strands. 

I  sit  within  my  lonely  room 
Where  the  lamp's  flame  just  breaks  the 
gloom, 

67 


A  Record 

And  thro'  the  darkness  of  the  night 
I  see  far  down  a  starry  light 
Where  nestled  safely  in  the  chine 
The  village  street  in  one  long  line 
Doth  like  a  glittering  serpent  shine. 

The  keen  wind  blows  through  the  dark 

skies, 

The  stars  look  down  like  countless  eyes 
That  see  and  know,  and  therefore  stare 
Unmoved  'midst  their  serene  high  air  : 
And  life  seems  but  a  dream,  a  shade 
Which  fleeting  Time  o'er  space  hath  laid, 
But  which  with  Time  shall  one  day  fade. 

Old  memories  are  mine  once  more, 
I  see  strange  lives  I  lived  of  yore  ; 
With  dimmed  sight  see  I  far-off  things^ 
I  feel  the  breath  of  bygone  springs, 
And  ringing  strangely  in  mine  ears 
I  hear  old  laughter,  alien  tears 
Slow  falling,  voices  of  past  yeais 

Far  back  the  soul  can  never  see — 
But  dreams  restore  mysteriously 
Dim  visions  of  a  possible  past, 
A  time  ere  the  last  bond  was  cast 
Aside  that  bound  the  struggling  soul 
Unto  the  brute,  and  first  some  goal 
Loomed  dimly  over  Life's  vast  shoal. 
68 


A  Record 

And  dreaming  so  I  live  my  dream  : 

I  see  a  yellow  turbid  stream 

Heavily  flowing  through  clustered  weeds 

Of  tropic  growth,  and  'midst  the  reeds 

Of  tall  green  rice  upon  its  bank 

A  crouching  tiger,  long  and  lank, 

With  slow  tail  swaying  from  flank  to  flank. 

Its  eyes  are  yellow  flames,  and  burn 
Upon  a  man  who  dips  an  urn 
Into  the  Ganges'  sacred  wave, 
Unknowing  he  has  reached  his  grave — 
A  short,  hoarse  roar,  a  scream,  a  blow  f 
And  even  as  I  shudder,  lo, 
My  tiger-sell  I  seem  to  know. 

And  dreaming  so  I  live  my  dream  : 

I  see  a  sunrise  glory  gleam 

Against  vast  mountain-heights,  and  there 

Upon  a  peak  precipitous,  bare, 

I  see  an  eagle  scan  the  plain 

Immeasurable  of  his  domain, 

With  fierce  untamable  disdain : 

When  first  the  stars  wax  pale  his  eyes 
Front  the  wide  east  where  day  doth  rise, 
And  with  unflinching  gaze  look  straight 
Against  the  sun,  then  proud,  elate, 
On  tireless  wings  he  swoops  on  high 
69 


A  Record 

O'er  countless  leagues,  and  thro'  the  sky 
Drifts  like  a  dark  cloud  ominously  : 

Then  as  day  dies  and  swift  night  springs, 

I  hear  the  sudden  rush  of  wings 

And  see  the  eagle  from  the  plain 

Sweep  to  his  eyrie  once  again 

With  fierce  keen  dauntless  eyes  aglow — 

And  even  as  I  watch  them,  lo, 

Mine  eagle-self  I  seem  to  know. 

And  dreaming  so  I  live  my  dream  : 

I  hear  a  savage  voice,  a  scream 

Scarcely  articulate,  and  far 

I  see  a  red  light  like  a  star 

Flashed  'neath  old  trees,  and  the  first  fire 

Made  by  the  brutish  tribe  burn  higher 

Until  unfed  its  flames  expire  : 

I  see  the  savage  whose  hand  drew 

The  fire  from  wood,  whose  swift  breath  blew 

The  flame  until  it  gained  new  strength, — 

I  see  him  stand  supreme  at  length, 

And  pointing  to  the  burning  flame 

Bend  low  his  swart  and  trembling  frame 

And  cry  aloud  a  guttural  name  : 

A  god  at  last  the  tribe  hath  found, 
A  god  at  whose  strange  crackling  sound 
70 


A  Record 

Each  man  must  bend  in  dread  until 

This  strange  new  god  hath  worked  his  will 

But  lo,  one  day  the  fire  spread  fast, 

And  ere  its  fury  is  o'erpast 

The  tribe  within  its  furnace-blast 

Hath  perish'd,  save  one  man  alone 
Who  far  in  sudden  fear  hath  flown  : 
But  with  a  gleam  of  new-born  thought 
A  second  flame  he  soon  hath  wrought 
Only  to  tramp  it  down,  aware 
At  last  that  no  dead  god  lies  there, 
Or  one  for  whom  no  man  need  care. 

He  looks  around  to  see  some  god, 
And  far  upon  the  fire-scorch'd  sod 
He  sees  his  brown-burnt  tribesmen  lie, 
And  thinks  their  voices  fill  the  sky, 
And  dreads  some  unseen  sudden  blow — 
And  even  as  I  watch  him,  lo, 
My  savage -self  I  seem  to  know. 

And  dreaming  so  I  live  my  dream  : 
I  see  a  flood  of  moonlight  gleam 
Between  vast  ancient  oaks,  and  round 
A  rough-hewn  altar  on  the  ground 
Weird  Druid  priests  are  gathered 
While  through  their  midst  a  man  is  led 
With  face  that  is  already  dead : 


A  Record 

A  low  chant  swells  throughout  the  wood, 

Then  comes  a  solemn  interlude 

Ere  loudlier  rings  dim  aisles  along 

Some  ancient  sacrificial  song  ; 

Before  the  fane  the  victim  kneels 

And  without  sound  he  forward  reels 

When  the  priest's  knife  the  death-blow  deals : 

The  moonlight  falls  upon  his  face, 

His  blood  is  spatter' d  o'er  the  place, 

But  now  he  is  ev'n  as  a  flow'r 

Uprooted  in  some  tempest  hour, 

Dead,  but  whose  seed  shall  elsewhere  grow  : 

And  as  I  look  upon  him,  lo, 

Some  old  ancestral-self  I  know. 

Thus  far  dreams  bring  mysteriously 
Visions  of  past  lives  back  to  me  ; 
Visions  alone  perhaps  they  are, 
Each  one  a  wandering  futile  star 
Flash'd  o'er  the  mental  firmament, — 
Yet  may  be  thus  in  past  times  went 
,  My  soul  in  gradual  ascent. 

None  sees  the  slow  sure  upward  sweep 
By  which  the  soul  from  life-depths  deep 
Ascends — unless,  mayhap,  when  free 
With  each  new  death  we  backward  see 
72 


A  Record 

The  long  perspective  of  our  race, 

Our  multitudinous  past  lives  trace 

Since  first  as  breath  of  God  through  space 

Each  came,  and  filled  the  lowest  thing 

With  life's  faint  pulse  scarce  quivering  ; 

So  ever  onward  upward  grew, 

And  ever  with  each  death-birth  knew 

An  old  sphere  left,  a  mystic  change — 

A  sense  of  exaltation  strange 

Thus  through  a  myriad  lives  to  range. 

But  even  in  our  mortal  lives 
At  times  the  eager  spirit  strives 
To  gain  through  subtle  memories 
Some  hint  of  life's  past  mysteries — 
Brief  moments  they,  that  flash  before 
Bewilder'd  eyes  some  scene  of  yore, 
Some  vivid  hour  returned  once  more. 

Swift    through   the    darken'd   clouds  of 

sense 

A  sudden  lightning-gleam  intense 
Reveals  some  glimpse  of  the  long  past, 
Some  memory  comes  back  at  last — 
And  yet  'twas  but  a  sudden  strain 
Of  song — a  scent — a  sound  of  rain — 
Some  trifle — made  all  clear  again. 
73 


A  Record 

With  a  swift  glance  such  glimpses  come 
And  go — but  there  are  times  for  some 
When  keen  the  vision  is,  so  keen 
That  thenceforth  the  indelible  scene 
Remains  within  the  mind  for  aye, 
Some  reminiscence  sad  or  gay, 
Some  action  of  a  bygone  day. 

Thus  came  to  me  memorious  gleams 

From   the   closed   past,    no   sleep-brought 

dreams 

But  revelations  flashed  out  swift 
Upon  the  mind  :  a  sudden  lift 
Of  the  dense  cloud  of  all  past  years, — 
A  moment  when  the  thrilling  ears 
Heard,  or  the  eyes  slow  filled  with  tears. 

Thus  has  there  flashed  across  my  sight 

A  desert  in  a  blinding  light 

Of  scorching  sun,  a  dreary  waste 

Of  burning  sand  where  seldom  paced 

The  swift,  gaunt  camels  with  their  freight 

Of  merchandise,  but  where  the  weight 

Of  silence  lay  inviolate. 

There  a  few  sterile  rocks  lay  white 
In  the  sun's  glare,  a  band  by  might 
Of  old  convulsions  thither  hurl'd 
In  the  far  days  of  the  young  world ; 

74 


A  Record 

And  in  their  midst  a  hollow  cave 
Was  cleft,  where  dwelt,  as  in  a  grave, 
One  who  came  thence  his  soul  to  save. 

Young,  and  from  out  the  joyous  strife 

Of  men  he  came  to  this  drear  life  : 

No  more  for  him  the  wine's  swift  spell, 

No  more  for  him  love's  miracle — 

But  bitter  as  the  dead  sea's  dust 

Seem'd  all  past  joys — dread  things  to  thrust 

Aside,  all  equally  accursed. 

In  fervid  prayer  all  day  he  sought 
God's  grace  :  in  dreams  at  night  he  fought 
The  fierce  temptations  born  of  youth. 
Awake,  he  strove  to  reach  God's  truth — 
Asleep,  he  felt  his  passions  rise 
And  darken  all  the  heav'nly  skies 
With  dread  deceitful  lovely  lies. 

Thus  year  by  year  he  fell  and  rose 
In  endless  conflict,  till  his  woes 
Fill'd  all  his  days  with  burning  tears 
And  dreadful  never-ending  fears  : 
Haggard  he  grew  from  scanty  food, 
With  sun  and  blast  and  shelter  rude 
And  terrors  of  his  lonelihood. 

With  long  hair  streaming  out  behind 
He  raced  before  the  burning  wind, 
With  wild  insane  strained  eyes  alert 

75 


A  Record 

For  demons  lurking  to  his  hurt — 
And  though  the  sun  beat  fiercely  hot 
Upon  the  sands,  he  heeded  not 
But  like  a  wand'ring  shadow  shot 

Across  the  burning  level  waste, 

Oft  shouting  as  he  wildly  raced 

"  My  body  is  in  hell,  but  I, 

Its  soul,  thus  hither  speed  and  cry 

To  God  to  blow  me  as  a  leaf 

From  out  this  agony  of  grief, 

To  slay,  and  give  me  death's  relief  !  '* 

Oft  as  he  fled,  with  from  his  mouth 

The   white   froth   blown   thro'   maddening 

drought, 

He  pass'd  the  crouching  lion's  lair — 
But  when  his  shrill  laugh  fill'd  the  air 
The  desert  monarch  shrank,  as  though 
He  feared  this  raving  shadow's  woe, 
This  haggard  wretch  with  eyes  aglow. 

But  when  the  sun  sank  past  the  west 
The  hermit  fled  the  desert,  lest 
God's  eyes  should  lose  him  in  the  night, 
And  foes  Satanic  guide  his  flight 
Till  soul  and  body  once  again 
Made  one  should  with  the  pangs  of  twain, 
In  hell  for  ever  writhe  in  pain. 
76 


A  Record 

But  when  sleep  came  to  him  he  lay 
In  peace,  and  oft  a  smile  would  play 
Upon  his  face  as  though  once  more 
In  dreams  he  lived  his  life  of  yore, — 
The  life  he  did  himself  dismiss, 
The  old  sweet  time  of  joy  and  bliss, — 
Heard  laughter,  or  felt  some  loved  kiss. 

Thus  have  I  seen,  and  seeing  known 

That  he  who  lived  afar  alone, 

A  hermit  on  a  dreary  waste, 

Was  even  that  soul  mine  eyes  have  traced 

Through  brute  and  savage  steadily, 

That  he  even  now  is  part  of  me 

Just  as  a  wave  is  of  the  sea. 


Far  out  across  the  deep  doth  swell 

The  hoarse  boom  of  the  Black-Rock  bell, 

A  heavy  moan  monotonous, 

An  inner  sea-sound  ominous/ 

As  though  throughout  the  ocean  there 

Relentless  Conscience  aye  did  bear 

A  bitter  message  of  despair. 

Still  sweeps  the  old  impetuous  sea 
Around  the  green  earth  ceaselessly — 
Changeless,  yet  full  of  change,  it  seems 
The  very  mirror  of  those  dreams 
77 


A  Record 

We  call  men's  lives — f or  are  not  they 
Like  life-sea  waves  Fate's  winds  doth  sway 
And  break,  yet  which  pass  not  away 

Through  depth  of  silent  air,  but  blend 
Once  more  with  the  deep  and  lend 
Their  never  dying  music  sweet 
To  the  great  choral  song  complete  ; 
Each  death  is  but  a  birth,  a  change — 
Each  soul  through  myriad  by-ways  strange, 
Through   birth   and   death,   doth   upward 
range. 


MOONRISE  FROM  IONA 

Here,  where  in  dim  forgotten  days 
A  savage  people  chanted  lays 
To  long  since  perished  gods,  I  stand  : 
The  sea  breaks  in,  runs  up  the  sand, 
Retreats  as  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
Sweeps  in  again  ;  again  leaves  dry 
The  ancient  beach,  so  old  and  yet 
So  new  that  as  the  strong  tides  fret 
The  island  barriers  in  their  flow 
The  ebb-hours  of  each  day  can  know 
A  surface  change.     The  day  is  dead, 
The  sun  is  set,  and  overhead 
The  white  north  stars  shine  keen  and  bright ; 
The  wind  upon  the  sea  is  light 
And  just  enough  to  stir  the  deep 
With  phosphorescent  gleams  and  sweep 
The  spray  from  salt  waves  as  they  rise  : 
And  yonder  light — is't  from  the  skies- 
Some  meteor  strange,  a  burning  star — 
Or  a  lamp  hung  upon  a  spar 
Of  vessel  undescribed  ?     It  gleams 
And  rise?,  slowly,  till  it  seems 
79 


Moonrise  from  lona 

A  burning  isle,  an  angel-throne 
Reset  on  earth,  a  mountain-cone 
Of  gold  new-risen  from  sea-caves — • 
Until  at  last  above  the  waves, 
Salt  with  Atlantic  brine,  it  swims 
A  silver  crescent.     Now  no  hymns 
In  the  wild  Runic  speech  are  heard, 
No  chant,  no  sacrificial  word  : 
But  only  moans  the  weary  sea, 
And  only  the  cold  wind  sings  free, 
And  where  the  Runic  temples  stood 
The  bat  flies  and  the  owl  doth  brood. 


80 


MOONRISE  ON  THE  VENETIAN 
LAGOONS 

A  more  than  twilight  darkness  dwells 
Upon  the  long  lagoons  :  the  bells 
Of  distant  Venice  come  and  go 
Like  sounds  in  dreams  ;  the  tide's  soft  flow 
Sweeps  onward,  and  a  wandering  gull 
Flits  o'er  the  track  of  yon  black  hull 
Just  fading  in  the  gloom — no  more 
I  see  or  hear  'tween  shore  and  shore  . 
But  as  I  lie  and  dreamily 
Watch  the  dark  water  from  the  sea 
Slip  past  the  boat,  in  its  blurred  sky 
I  see  the  crescent  moon  on  high 
Casting  curv'd  golden  flakes  far  down 
Amidst  the  calm  lagoon — a  crown 
Broken  innumerably  up, 
The  gold  bands  of  a  broken  cup. 
I  take  an  oar  and  make  a  rift 
In  the  soft  tide  of  the  lagoons, — • 
And  lo,  the  blade  itself  doth  lift 
A  score  of  quivering  crescent  moons, 
And  as  they  flash  I  seem  to  see 
Each  droplet  with  a  small  moon  flee, 
i  81  F 


MOONRISE  ON  THE  ANTARCTIC 

The  huge  white  icebergs  silently 
Voyage  with  us  through  this  lonely  sea, 
Noiseless  and  lifeless,  yet  they  seem 
Like  haunted  islands  in  a  dream 
Holding  strange  secrets  that  no  one 
May  know  and  live.     In  the  bright  sun 
They  shine  immeasurably  fair, 
Bluer  than  bluest  summer  air, 
Or  clear  to  the  very  heart  with  gre«i;n 
Pure  light,  or  amethyst  as  seen 
'Mid  sunset-clouds — but  now  they  shine 
With  a  cold  gleam  and  have  no  sign 
Of  loveliness.    The  ship  swings  on, 
Plunging  'mid  surging  seas  whereon 
Few  vessels  ever  sail,  and  as 
Slowly  the  long  hours  come  and  pass 
The  late  moon  rises  cold  and  white; 
And  sends  a  flood  of  wintry  light 
Along  the  sweeping  waves  and  round 
Our  black  and  sea-worn  hull.    A  sound 
Far  off  dies  while  it  grows — some  seal 
Long-drifted,  frozen,  waking  but  to  feel 
Death's  grip.     And  now  the  spectral  isles 
82 


Moonrise  on  the  Antarctic 

Grow  whiter,  icier  still,  and  seem 
More  hollow,  with  a  strange  weird  gleam 
As  though  some  pale  unreal  fires 
Consume'd  them  to  their  utmost  spires 
Yet  without  flame  or  heat.    And  still 
The  moon  doth  rise,  and  seems  to  fill 
Each  berg  anew  with  life  :  we  sail 
Upon  a  strange  sad  sea,  where  pale 
And  moonshine  isles  float  all  around, 
Voyaging  onward  without  sound. 


TRANSCRIPTS 
FROM  NATURE 

(FROM  "  THE  HUMAN  INHERITANCE  '' 
AND  DEARTH'S  VOICES") 

'  1882-1886 


WILD  ROSES 

Against  the  dim  hot  summer  blue 
Yon  wave  of  white  wild-roses  lies, 
Watching  with  listless  golden  eyes 

The  green  leaves  shutting  out  their  view, 
The  tiny  leaves  whose  motions  bright 
Are  like  small  wings  of  emerald  light : 

White  butterflies  like  snow-flakes  fall 
And  brown  bees  drone  their  honey-call. 


THE  EBBING  TIDE 

A  long  low  gurgle  down  the  strand; 

The  sputtering  of  the  drying  wrack  ! 

The  tide  is  slowly  ebbing  back 
With  listless  murmuring  from  the  land, 

And  the  small  waves  reluctant  flow 

Where  the  broad-bosomed  currents  go. 

The  sea  has.fall'n  asleep,  and  lies 
Dense  blue  beneath  the  dense  blue  skies. 
87 


DAWN  AMID  SCOTCH  FIRS 

The  furtive  lights  that  herald  dawn 

Are  shimmering  'mid  the  steel-blue  firs  ; 

A  slow  awakening  wind  half  stirs 
And  the  long  branches  breathe  upon  ; 

The  east  grows  clearer — clearer — lo; 

The  day  is  born  !    A  refluent  flow 

Of  silver  waves  along  each  tree 
For  one  brief  moment  dazzlingly. 


A  DEAD  CALM  AND  MIST 
(Towards  evening) 

The  slow  heave  of  the  sleeping  sea 

With  pulse-like  motion  swells  and  falls, 
And  drowsily  a  stray  gull  calls 

The  very  wail  of  melancholy  ; 
All  day  the  moveless  mist  has  slept 
On  the  same  bosom  east  winds  swept : 

No  breath  of  change  in  the  grey  mist; 
Save  just  a  dream  of  amethyst. 
88 


TANGLED  SUNRAYS 

Aslant  from  yonder  sunlit  hill 
The  lance-like  sunrays  stream  across 
The  meadows  where  the  king-cups  toss 

I'  the  wind,  and  where  the  beech-leaves  thrill 
With  flooding  light  they  twist  and  turn 
And  seem  to  interlace  and  burn; 

Until  at  last  in  tangle  spun 

'Mid  the  damp  grass  their  race  is  run. 


LOCH  CORUISK  (SKYE) 

The  bleak  and  barren  mountains  keep 
A  never-ending  gloom  around 
The  lonely  loch  ;  the  winds  resound, 

The  rains  beat  down,  the  tempests  sweep, 
The  days  are  calm  and  dark  and  still, — 
No  other  changes  Coruisk  fill. 

Scarce  living  sound  is  heard,  save  high 
The  eagle's  scream  or  wild  swan's  cry. 


SUNRISE    ABOVE    BROAD    WHEAT- 
FIELDS 

The  pale  tints  of  the  twilight  fields 
Have  turned  into  burnished  gold, 
For  waves  of  yellow  light  have  rolled 

From  the  open'd  east  across  the  wealds  ; 
While  'mid  the  wheat  spires  far  behind 
Stirs  lazily  the  awaken'd  wind. 

A  skylark  high  (a  song-made  bird) 
Sings  as  though  God  his  singing  heard. 


PHOSPHORESCENT  SEA 

The  sea  scarce  heaves  in  its  calm  sleep; 
The  wind  has  not  awakened  yet 
Tho'  in  its  dreams  it  seems  to  fret ; 

For,  ever  and  again,  the  deep 
Hearkens  a  sigh  that  steals  along 
As  might  some  echo  of  sad  song  : 

Ah,  there  the  wind  stirs  !    Lo,  the  dark 
Dim  sea's  on  fire  around  our  barque. 
90 


A  GREEN  WAVE 

Between  the  salt  sea -send  before 
And  all  the  flowing  gulfs  behind, 
Half  lifted  by  the  rising  wind, 

Half  eager  for  the  ungain'd  shore, 
A  great  green  wave  of  shining  light 
Sweeps   onward   crowned  with   dazzling 
white : 

Above,  the  east  wind  shreds  the/sky 
With  plumes  from  the  grey  clouds  that  fly. 


A  CRYSTAL  FOREST 

The  air  is  blue  and  keen  and  cold, 

With  snow  the  roads  and  fields  are  white  ; 

But  here  the  forest's  clothed  with  light 
And  in  a  shining  sheath  enrolled. 

Each  branch,  each  twig,  each  blade  of 
grass, 

Seems  clad  miraculously  with  glass  : 

Above  the  ice-bound  streamlet  bends 
Each  frozen  fern  with  crystal  ends. 


THE  WASP 

Where  the  ripe  pears  droop  heavily 
The  yellow  wasp  hums  loud  and  long 
His  hot  and  drowsy  autumn  song  : 

A  yellow  flame  he  seems  to  be, 
When  darting  suddenly  from  high 
He  lights  where  fallen  peaches  lie  : 

Yellow  and  black,  this  tiny  thing's 
A  tiger-soul  on  elfin  wings. 


AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING 

Deep  black  against  the  dying  glow 
The  tall  elms  stand  ;  the  rooks  are  still ; 
No  windbreath  makes  the  faintest  thrill 

Amongst  the  leaves  ;  the  fields  below 
Are  vague  and  dim  in  twilight  shades — 
Only  the  bats  wheel  in  their  raids 

On  the  grey  flies,  and  silently 
Great  dusky  moths  go  flitting  by. 
92 


A  WINTER  HEDGEROW 

The  wintry  wolds  are  white  ;  the  wind 
Seems  frozen  ;  in  the  shelter 'd  nooks 
The  sparrows  shiver  ;  the  black  rooks 

Wheel  homeward  where  the  elms  behind 
The  manor  stand  ;  at  the  field's  edge 
The  redbreasts  in  the  blackthorn  hedge 

Sit  close  and  under  snowy  eaves 

The  shrewmice  sleep  'mid  nested  leaves. 


THE  ROOKERY  AT  SUNRISE 

The  lofty  elm-trees  darkly  dream 
Against  the  steel-blue  sky  ;  till  far 
I*  the  twilit  east  a  golden  star 

O'erbrims  the  dusk  in  one  vast  stream 
Of  yellow  light,  and  lo  !  a  cry 
Breaks  from  the  windy  nest — the  sky 

Is  filled  with  wheeling  rooks — they  sway 
In  one  black  phalanx  towards  the  day. 
93 


MOONRISE 

The  first  snows  of  the  year  lie  white 
Upon  the  branches  bending  low  ; 
A  surging  wind  the  flakes  doth  blow 

Before  the  coming  feet  of  Night — 
Half  dusk,  half  day,  betwixt  the  pines 
Green -yellow  the  full  moon  reclines  : 

Green-yellow,  and  now  wholly  green, 
While  faint  the  windy  stars  are  seen. 


FIREFLIES      . 

Softly  sailing  emerald  lights 

Above  the  cornfields  come  and  go, 
Listlessly  wandering  to  and  fro  : 

The  magic  of  these  July  nights 
Has  surely  even  pierced  down  deep 
Where  the  earth's  jewels  unharmed  sleep, 

And  filled  with  fire  the  emeralds  there 
And  raised  them  thus  to  the  outer  air. 
94 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

As  though  the  Power  that  made  the  nautilus 
A  living  glory  o'er  seas  perilous 
Scathless  to  roam,  had  from  the  utmost 

deep 

Called  a  vast  flawless  pearl  from  out  its  sleep 
And   carv'd   it   crescent-wise,    exceeding 

fair, — . 

So  seems  the  crescent  moon  that  thro'  the 
air 

With  motionless  motion  glides  from  out  the 

west, 
And  sailing  onward  ever  seems  at  rest. 


THE  EAGLE 

Between  two  mighty  hills  a  sheer 
Abyss — far  down  in  the  ravine 
A  thread-like  torrent  and  a  screen 

Of  oaks  like  shrubs — and  one  doth  rear 
A  dry  scarp'd  peak  above  all  sound 
Save  wincjy  voices  wailing  round  : 

At  sunrise  here,  in  proud  disdain 
The  eagle  scans  his  vast  domain. 
95 


A  VENETIAN  SUNSET  :  BEFORE  A 
CHANGE 

(Returning  from  Torcetto) 

In  violet  hues  each  dome  and  spire 
Stands  outlined  against  flawless  rose  ; 
O'er  this  a  carmine  ocean  flows 

Streak'd  with  pure  gold  and  amber  fire; 
And  through  the  sea  of  sundown  mist 
Float  isles  of  melted  amethyst : 

Storm-portents,  saffron  streamers  rise, 
Fan-like,  from  Venice  to  the  skies. 


EMPIRE  (PERSEPOLIS) 

The  yellow  waste  of  yellow  sands, 
The  bronze  haze  of  a  scorching  sky  ! 
Lo,  what  are  these  that  broken  lie  ; 

Were  these  once  temples  made  with  hands  ? 
Once  towers  and  palaces  that  knew 
No  hint  of  that  which  one  day  threw 

Their  greatness  to  the  winds — made  this 
The  memory  of  Persepolis  ? 
96 


AUSTRALIAN  SKETCHES 


THE  LAST  ABORIGINAL 

I  see  him  sit,  wild-eyed,  alone, 
Amidst  gaunt,  spectral,  moonlit  gums — 
He  waits  for  death  :  not  once  a  moan 
From  out  his  rigid  fixt  lips  comes  ; 
His  lank  hair  falls  adown  a  face 
Haggard  as  any  wave- worn  stone; 
And  in  his  eyes  I  dimly  trace 
The  memory  of  a  vanished  race. 

The  lofty  ancient  gum-trees  stand, 
Each  grey  and  ghostly  in  the  moon; 
The  giants  of  an  old  strange  land 
That  was  exultant  in  its  noon 
When  all  our  Europe  was  o'erturned 
With  deluge  and  with  shifting  sand, 
With  earthquakes  that  the  hills  inurned 
And  central  fires  that  fused  and  burned. 

The  moon  moves  slowly  through  the  vast 
And  solemn  skies  ;  the  night  is  still, 
Save  when  a  warrigal  springs  past 
With  dismal  howl,  or  when  the  shrill 
99 


The  last  Aboriginal 

Scream  of  a  parrot  rings  which  feels 
A  twining  serpent's  fangs  fixt  fast, 
Or  when  a  grey  opossum  squeals, 
Or  long  iguana,  as  it  steals 

From  bole  to  bole  disturbs  the  leaves  : 
But  hush'd  and  still  he  sits — who  knows 
That  all  is  o'er  for  him  who  weaves 
With  inner  speech,  malign,  morose, 
A  curse  upon  the  whites  who  came 
And  gather'd  up  his  race  like  sheaves 
Of  thin  wheat,  fit  but  for  the  flame — 
Who  shot  or  spurned  them  without  shame. 

He  knows  he  shall  not  see  again 
The  creeks  whereby  the  lyre-birds  sing — 
He  shall  no  more  upon  the  plain; 
Sun  scorch'd,  and  void  of  water-spring; 
Watch  the  dark  cassowaries  sweep 
In  startled  flight,  or,  with  spear  lain 
In  ready  poise,  glide,  twist,  and  creep 
Where  the  brown  kangaroo  doth  leap. 

No  more  in  silent  dawns  he'll  wait 

By  still  lagoons,  and  mark  the  flight 

Of  black  swans  near  :  no  more  elate 

Whirl  high  the  boomerang  aright 

Upon  some  foe  :  he  knows  that  now 

He  too  must  share  his  race's  night — 

He  scarce  can  know  the  white  man's  plough 

Will  one  day  pass  above  his  brow. 

100 


The  last  Aboriginal 

Last  remnant  of  the  Austral  race 

He  sits  and  stares,  with  failing  breath  : 

The  shadow  deepens  on  his  face, 

For  'midst  the  spectral  gums  waits  death. 

A  dingo's  sudden  howl  swells  near — 

He  stares  once  with  a  startled  gaze, 

As  half  in  wonder,  half  in  fear; 

Then  sinks  back  on  his  unknown  bier. 


101 


THE  COROBBOREE 

(Midnight) 

Deep  in  the  forest-depths  the  tribe 
A  mighty  blazing  fire  have  made  : 
Round  this  they  spring  with  frantic  yells 
In  hideous  pigments  all  arrayed — 

One  barred  with  yellow  ochre,  one 
A  skeleton  in  startling  white, 
There  one  who  dances  furiously 
Blood-red  against  the  great  fire's  light, — 

With  death's  insignia  on  his  breast; 
In  rude  design,  the  swart  chief  springs  ; 
And  loud  and  long  each  echoes  back 
The  savage  war-cry  that  he  sings. 

Within  the  forest  dark  and  dim 
The  startled  cockatoos  like  ghosts 
Flit  to  and  fro,  the  mopokes  scream; 
And  parrots  rise  in  chattering  hosts  ; 

102 


The  Corobborc: 

The  gins  and  lubras  crouch  and  watch 
With  eager  shining  brute-like  eyes, 
And  ever  and  again  shrill  back 
Wild  echoes  of  the  frantic  cries  :— 

Like  some  infernal  scene  it  is — 
The  forest  dark,  the  blazing  fire; 
The  ghostly  birds,  the  dancing  fiends, 
Whose  savage  chant  swells  ever  higher. 

Afar  away  gaunt  wild-dogs  howl, 
And  strange  cries  vaguely  call :  but  white 
The  placid  moon  sails  on,  and  flame 
The  silent  stars  above  the  night. 


JUSTICE 

(Uncivilised  and  Civilised) 

Ling-Tso  Ah  Sin;  on  Murderer's  Flat 
One  morning  caught  an  old  grey  rat : 
f '  Ah;  white  man,  I  have  got  you  now 
But  no — dust  be  upon  my  brow 
If  needless  blood  I  cause  to  fall — 
So  go,  there's  world-room  for  us  all ! " 

That  night  Ah  Sin  was  somehow  shot- 
By  accident !    For  he  had  got 
From  earth  a  little  gold — black  sin 
For  thee,  though  not  for  us;  Ah  Sin  ! 

MURDERER'S  FLAT;  February  1878. 


NOON-SILENCE 
(Australian  Forest) 

A  lyre-bird  sings  a  low  melodious  song — 
Then  all  is  still :  a  soft  wind  breathes  along 
The  lofty  gums  and  faintly  dies  away  : 
And  Silence  wakes  and  knows  her  dream  is 
day. 

104 


AUSTRALIAN 
TRANSCRIPTS 


I.  AN  ORANGE  GROVE 

(Victoria) 

The  short  sweet  purple  twilight  dreams 
Of  vanish'd  day,  of  coming  night ; 
And  like  gold  moons  in  the  soft  light 
Each  scented  drooping  orange  gleams 
From  out  the  glossy  leaves  black-green 
That  make  through  noon  a  cool  dark  screen. 
The  dusk  is  silence,  save  the  thrill 
That  stirs  it  from  cicalas  shrill. 


II.  BLACK  SWANS  ON  THE 
MURRAY  LAGOONS 

The  long  lagoons  lie  white  and  still 
Beneath  the  great  round  Austral  moon  : 
The  sudden  dawn  will  waken  soon 
With  many  a  delicious  thrill : 
Between  this  death  and  life  the  cries 
Of  black  swans  ring  through  silent  skies — 
And  the  long  wash  of  the  slow  stream 
Moves  as  in  sleep  some  bodeful  dream. 
107 


III.  BREAKING  BILLOWS  AT 
SORRENTO 

(Victoria) 

A  sky  of  whirling  flakes  of  foam; 
A  rushing  world  of  dazzling  blue 
One  moment,  the  sky  looms  in  view — 
The  next,  a  crash  in  its  curved  dome, 
A  tumult  indescribable; 
And  eyes  dazed  with  the  miracle. 
Here  breaks  by  circling  day  and  night 
In  thunder  the  sea's  boundless  might. 


IV.  SHEA-OAK  TREES  ON  A 
STORMY,  DAY 

(S.E.  Victoria) 

O'er  sandy  tracts  the  shea-oak  trees 
Droop  their  long  wavy  grey-green  trails  : 
And  inland  wandering  moans  and  wails 
The  long  blast  of  the  ocean-breeze  : 
Like  loose  strings  of  a  viol  or  harp 
These  answering  sound — now  low,  now  sharp 
And  keen,  a  melancholy  strain  : 
A  death  song  o'er  the  mournful  plain. 
108 


V.  MID-NOON  IN  JANUARY 

Upon  a  fibry  fern-tree  bough 
A  huge  iguana  lies  alow, 
Bright  yellow  in  the  noonday  glow 
With  bars  of  black, — it  watcheth  now 
A  gorgeous  insect  hover  high 
Till  suddenly  its  lance  doth  fly 
And  catch  the  prey — but  still  no  sound 
Breathes  'mid  the  green  fern-spaces  round 


VI.  IN  THE  FERN 

(Gippsland) 

The  feathery  fern-trees  make  a  screen 
Wherethrough  the  sunglare  cannot  pass — 
Fern,  gum;  and  lofty  sassafras  : 
The  fronds  sweep  over,  palely  green; 
And  underneath  are  orchids  curl'd 
Adream  through  this  cool  shadow-world  ; 
A  fragrant  greenness — like  the  noon 
Of  lime-tree  in  an  English  June. 

109 


VII.  SUNSET  AMID  THE  BUFFALO 
MOUNTAINS 

(N.E.  Victoria) 

Across  the  boulder 'd  majesty 
Of  the  great  hills  the  passing  day 
Drifts  like  a  wind-borne  cloud  away 
Far  off  beyond  the  western  sky  : 
And  while  a  purple  glory  spreads, 
With  straits  of  gold  and  brilliant  reds, 
An  azure  veil,  translucent,  strange, 
Dreamlike  steals  over  each  dim  range. 


VIII.  THE  FLYING  MOUSE 

(New  South  Wales — Moonlight) 

The  eucalyptus-blooms  are  sweet 
With  honey,  and  the  birds  all  day 
Sip  the  clear  juices  forth  :  brown-grey, 
A  bird-like  thing  with  tiny  feet 
Cleaves  to  the  boughs,  or  with  small  wings 
Amidst  the  leafy  spaces  springs, 
And  in  the  moonshine  with  shrill  cries 
Flits  bat-like  where  the  white  gums  rise, 
no 


IX.  THE  BELL-BIRD 

The  stillness  of  the  Austral  noon 
Is  broken  by  no  single  sound — 
No  lizards  even  on  the  ground 
Rustle  amongst  dry  leaves — no  tune 
The  lyre-bird  sings — yet  hush  !     I  hear 
A  soft  bell  tolling,  silvery  clear  ! 
Low  soft  aerial  chimes,  unknown 
Save  'mid  these  silences  alone. 


X.  THE  WOOD-SWALLOWS  * 

(Sunrise) 

The  lightning-stricken  giant  gum 
Stands  leafless,  dead — a  giant  still 
But  heedless  of  this  sunrise-thrill : 
What  stir  is  this  where  all  was  dumb  ? — 
What  seem  like  old  dead  leaves  break  swift, 
And  lo,  a  hundred  wings  uplift 
A  cloud  of  birds  that  to  and  fro     t 
Dart  joyous  midst  the  sunrise-glow. 

*  The  wood-swallows  of  Australia  have  the  singular 
habit  of  clustering  like  bees  or  bats  on  the  boughs  of 
a  dead  tree. 

MI 


XI.  THE  ROCK-LILY 

(New  South  Wales) 

The  amber-tinted  level  sands 
Unbroken  stretch  for  leagues  away 
Beyond  these  granite  slabs,  dull  grey 
And  lifeless,  herbless — save  where  stands 
The  mighty  rock-flow'r  towering  high, 
With  carmine  blooms  crowned  gloriously 

A  giant  amongst  flowers  it  reigns; 

The  glory  of  these  Austral  plains. 


XII.  THE  FLAME-TREE 

(New  South  Wales) 

For  miles  the  Illawarra  range 
Runs  level  with  Pacific  seas  : 
What  glory  when  the  morning  breeze 
Upon  its  slopes  doth  shift  and  change 
Deep  pink  and  crimson  hues,  till  all 
The  leagues-long  distance  seems  a  wall 
Of  swift  uncurling  flames  of  fire 
That  wander  not  nor  reach  up  higher. 

112 


FROM 

ROMANTIC  BALLADS 

1888 


H 


THE  WEIRD  OF  MICHAEL  SCOTT 

The  wild  wind  moaned :   fast    waned    the 

light : 
Dense  cloud-wrack  gloomed  the   front    of 

night : 

The  moorland  cries  were  cries  of  pain  : 
Green,  red,  or  broad  and  glaring  white 
The  lightnings  flashed  athwart  the  main. 

The  sound  and  fury  of  the  waves, 
Upon  the  rocks,  among  the  caves, 

Boomed    inland    from    the    thunderous 

strand : 
Mayhap  the  dead  heard  in  their  graves 

The  tumult  fill  the  hollow  land. 

With  savage  pebbly  rush  and  roar 
The  billows  swept  the  echoing  shore 

In  clouds  of  spume  and  swirling  spray  : 
The  wild  wings  of  the  tempest  bore 

The  salt  rheum  to  the.  Haunted  Brae. 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Upon  the  Haunted  Brae  (where  none 
Would  linger  in  the  noontide  sun) 

Michael  the  Wizard  rode  apace  : 
Wildly  he  rode  where  all  men  shun, 

With  madness  gleaming  on  his  face. 

Loud,  loud  he  laugh'd  whene'er  he  saw 
The  lightnings  split  on  Lammer-Law, 

"  Blood,  bride,  and  bier  the  auld  rune  saiih 
Hell's  wind  tae  me  ae  nicht  sail  blaw, 

The  nicht  I  ride  unto  my  death  !  " 

Across  the  Haunted  Brae  he  fled, 

And  mock'd  and  jeer'd  the  shuddering  pead  ; 

Wan  white  the  horse  that  he  bestrode, 
The  fire-flaughts  stricken  as  it  sped 

Flashed  thro'  the  black  mirk  of  the  road. 

And  even  as  his  race  he  ran, 

A  shade  pursued  the  fleeing  man, 

A  white  and  ghastly  shade  it  was  ; 
"  Like  saut  sea-spray  across  wet  san' 

Or  wind  abune  the  moonlit  grass  ! — 

"  Like  saut  sea -spray  it  follows  me, 
Or  wind  o'er  grass — so  fast's  I  flee  : 

In  vain  I  shout,  and  laugh,  and  call — 
The  thing  betwixt  me  and  the  sea 

God  kens  it  is  my  ain  lost  saul !  " 
116 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Down,  down  the  Haunted  Brae,  and  past 
The  verge  of  precipices  vast 

And  eyries  where  the  eagles  screech  ; 
By  great  pines  swaying  in  the  blast, 

Through  woods  of  moaning  larch  and 
beech ; 

On,  on  by  moorland  glen  and  stream, 
Past  lonely  lochs  where  ospreys  scream, 

Past  marsh-lands  where  no  sound  is 

heard, 
The  rider  and  his  white  horse  gleam, 

And,  aye  behind,  that  dreadful  third. 

Wild  and  more  wild  the  wild  wind  blew, 
But  Michael  Scott  the  rein  ne'er  drew  : 

Loud  and  more  loud  his  laughter  shrill, 
His  wild  and  mocking  laughter,  grew, 

In  dreadful  cries  'twixt  hill  and  hill. 

At  last  the  great  high  road  he  gained, 
And  now  with  whip  and  voice  he  strained 

To  swifter  flight  the  gleaming  mare  ; 
Afar  ahead  the  fierce  sleet  rained 

Upon  the  ruin'd  House  of  Stair. 

Then  Michael  Scott  laughed  long  and  loud  : 
"  Whan  shone  the  mune  ahint  yon  cloud 

I  kent  the  Towers  that  saw  my  birth — 
Lang,  lang,  sail  wait  my  cauld  grey  shroud, 

Lang  cauld  and  weet  my  bed  o'  earth  !  " 
117 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

But  as  by  Stair  he  rode  full  speed 
His  horse  began  to  pant  and  bleed  : 

"  Win  hame,  win  hame,  my  bonnie  mare, 
Win  hame  if  thou  would'st  rest  and  feed, 

Win  hame,  we're  nigh  the  House  of  Stair ! " 

But  with  a  shrill  heart -bursten  yell 

The  white  horse  stumbled,  plunged,  and  fell, 

And  loud  a  summoning  voice  arose, 
"Is't  White-Horse  Death  that  rides  frae 
Hell, 

Or  Michael  Scott  that  hereby  goes  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Lord  of  Stair,  I  ken  ye  weel ! 
Avaunt,  or  I  your  saul  sail  steal, 

An'  send  ye  howling  through  the  wood 
A  wild  man-wolf — aye,  ye  maun  reel 

An'  cry  upon  your  Holy  Rood  !  " 

Swift  swept  the  sword  within  the  shade, 
Swift  was  the  flash  the  blue  steel  made, 

Swift  was  the  downward  stroke  and  rash — 
But,  as  though  leven-struck,  the  blade 

Fell  splintered  earthward  with  a  crash. 

With  frantic  eyes  Lord  Stair  out -peered 
When    Michael    Scott   laughed   loud    and 

jeered : — 

"  Forth  fare  ye  now,  ye've  gat  lang  room  ! 
118 


The  Weird  of  Michael  3cott 

Ah,  by  my  saul  thou'lt  dree  thy  weird  ! 
Begone,  were-wolf,  till  the  day  o'  doom  !  " 

A  shrill  scream  pierced  the  lonely  place  ; 
A  dreadful  change  came  o'er  the  face  ; 

The  head,  with  bristled  hair,  swung  low  ; 
Michael  the  Wizard  turned  and  fled 

And  laughed  a  mocking  laugh  of  woe. 

And  through  the  wood  there  stole  and  crept, 
And  through  the  wood  there  raced  and  leapt, 

A  thing  in  semblance  of  a  man  ; 
An  awful  look  its  wild  eyes  kept 

As  howling  through  the  night  it  ran. 


PART  II 

Athwart  the  wan  bleak  moonlit  waste, 
With  staring  eyes,  in  frantic  haste, 
With  thin  locks  back-blown  by  the  wind, 
A  grey  gaunt  haggard  figure  raced 
And  moaned  the  thing  that  sped  behind. 

It  followed  him,  afar  or  near  : 
In  wrath  he  curs'd  ;  he  shrieked  in  fear  ; 
But  ever  more  it  followed  him  : 
Eftsoons  he'd  stop,  and  turn,  and  peer 
To  front  the  following  phantom  grim. 
119 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Naught  would  he  see  ;  in  vain  would  list 
For  wing-like  sound  or  feet  that  hissed 
Like  wind-blown  snow  upon  the  ice  ; 
The  grey  thing  vanished  like  a  mist, 
Or  like  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  : 

"  Come  forth  frae  out  the  mirk,"  his  cry, 
"  For  I  maun  live  or  I  maun  die, 
But  na,  nae  mair  I'll  suffer  baith  !  " 
Then,  with  a  shriek,  would  onward  fly 
And,  swift  behind,  his  following  wraith. 

Michael  the  Wizard  sped  across 
The  peat  and  bracken  o'  the  moss  : 
He  heard  the  muir-wind  rise  and  fall, 
And  laughed  to  see  the  birk-boughs  toss 
An'  the  stealthy  shadows  leap  or  crawl. 

When  white  St.  Monan's  Water  streamed 
For  leagues  athwart  the  muir,  and  gleamed 
With  phosphorescent  marish-fires, 
With  wild  and  sudden  joy  he  screamed, 
For  scarce  a  mile  was  Kevan-Byres — 

Sweet  Kevan-Byres,  dear  Kevan-Byres, 
That  oft  of  old  was  thronged  with  squires 
And  joyous  damsels  blithe  and  gay  : 
Alas,  alas  for  Kevan-Byres 
That  now  is  cold  and  grey. 
120 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

There  in  bed  on  linen  sheet 
With  white  soft  limbs  and  love-dreams  sweet 
Fair  Margaret  o'  the  Byres  would  be  : 
(Ah,  when  he'd  lain  and  kissed  her  feet 
Had  she  not  laughed  in  mockery  !) 

Aye  she  had  laughed,  for  what  reck'd  she 

O'  a'  the  powers  of  Wizardie  ! 

"  Win  up,  win  up,  guid  Michael  Scott, 

For  ye  sail  ne'er  win  boon  o'  me, 

By  plea,  or  sword,  or  spell,  God  wot !  " 

Aye,  these  the  words  that  she  had  said  : 
These  were  the  words  that  as  he  fled 
Michael  the  Wizard  muttered  o'er — 
"  My  Margaret,  bow  your  bonnie  head, 
For  ye  sail  never  flout  me  more  !  " 

Swiftly  he  raced,  with  gleaming  eyes, 
And  wild,  strange,  sobbing,  panting  cries, 
Dire,  dire,  and  fell  his  frantic  mood  ; 
Until  he  gained  St.  Monan's  Rise 
Whereon  the  House  of  Kevan  stood. 

There  looked  he  long  and  fixed  his  gaze 
Upon  a  room  where  in  past  days 
His  very  soul  had  pled  love's  boon  : 
Lit  was  it  now  with  the  wan  rays 
Flick-flickering  from  the  cloud-girt  moon. 
121 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

"  Come   forth,   May   Margaret,   come,   my 

heart ! 

For  thou  and  I  nae  mair  sail  part — 
Come  forth,  I  bid,  though  Christ  himseP 
My  bitter  love  should  strive  to  thwart, 
For  I  have  a'  the  powers  o'  hell !  " 

What  was  the  white  wan  thing  that  came 
And  lean'd  from  out  the  window-frame, 
And  waved  wild  arms  against  the  sky  ? 
What  was  the  hollow  echoing  name, 
What  was  the  thin  despairing  cry  ? 

Adown  the  long  and  dusky  stair, 

And  through  the  courtyard  bleak  and  bare, 

And  past  the  gate,  and  out  upon 

The  whistling,  moaning,  midnight  air — 

What  is't  that  Michael  Scott  has  won  ! 

Across  the  moat  it  seems  to  flee, 
It  speeds  across  the  windy  lea, 
And  through  the  ruin'd  abbey-arch  ; 
Now  like  a  mist  all  waveringly 
It  stands  beneath  a  lonely  larch. 

"  Come  Margaret,  my  Margaret, 
Thou  see'st  my  vows  I  ne'er  forget : 
Come  win  wi'  me  across  the  waste — 
Lang  lang  I've  wandered  cauld  and  wet; 
An'  now  thy  sweet  warm  lips  would  taste  !  " 

122 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scoti 

But  as  a  whirling  drift  of  snow, 

Or  flying  foam  the  sea-winds  blow, 

Or  smoke  swept  thin  before  a  gale 

It  flew  across  the  waste — and  oh 

'Twas  Margaret's  voice  in  that  long  wail ! 

Swift  as  the  hound  upon  the  deer, 
Swift  as  the  stag  when  nigh  the  mere, 
Michael  the  Wizard  followed  fast — 
What  though  May  Margaret  fled  in  fear, 
She  should  be  his,  be  his,  at  last ! — 

O'er  broom  and  whin  and  bracken  high, 
Where  the  peat  bog  lay  gloomily, 
Where  sullenly  the  bittern  boomed 
And  startled  curlews  swept  the  sky, 
Until  St.  Monan's  Water  loomed  ! 

"  The  cauld  wet  water  sail  na  be 

The  bride-bed  for  my  love  and  me — 

For  now  upon  St.  Monan's  shore 

May  Margaret  her  love  sail  gie 

To  him  she  mocked  and  jeered  of  yore  !  " 

Was  that  a  heron  in  its  flight  ? 
Was  that  a  mere -mist  wan  and  white  ? 
What  thing  from  lonely  kirkyard  grave  ? 
Forlorn  it  trails  athwart  the  night 
With  arms  that  writhe  and  wring  and  wave  ! 
123 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Deep  down  within  the  mere  it  sank, 
Among  the  slimy  reeds  and  rank, 
And  all  the  leagues-long  loch  was  bare — 
One  vast,  grey,  moonlit,  lifeless  blank 
Beneath  a  silent  waste  of  air. 

"  O  God,  O  God  !  her  soul  it  is  ! 
Christ's  saved  her  frae  my  blasting  kiss  ! 
Her  soul  frae  out  her  body  drawn, 
The  body  I  maun  have  for  bliss  ! 
O  body  dead  and  spirit  gaun  !  " 

Hours  long  o'er  Monan's  wave  he  stared  ; 
The  fire-flaughts  flashed  and  gleamed  and 

glared, 

The  death-lights  o'  the  lonely  place  : 
And  aye,  dead  still,  he  watch'd,  till  flared 
The  sunrise  on  his  haggard  face. 

Full  well  he  knew  that  with  its  fires 
Loud  was  the  tumult  'mong  the  squires, 
And  fierce  the  bitter  pain  of  all 
Where  stark  and  stiff  in  Kevan-Byres 
May  Margaret  lay  beneath  her  pall. 

Then  once  he  laughed,  and  twice,  and  thrice, 
Though  deep  within  his  hollow  eyes 
Dull-gleamed  a  light  of  fell  despair. 
Around,  Earth  grew  a  Paradise 
In  the  sweet  golden  morning  air. 
124 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Slowly  he  rose  at  last,  and  swift 
One  gaunt  and  frantic  arm  did  lift 
And  curs'd  God  in  his  heav'n  o'erhead  : 
Then,  like  a  lonely  cloud  adrift, 
Far  from  St.  Monan's  wave  he  filed. 


PART.  Ill 

All  day  the  curlew  wailed  and  screamed, 
All  day  the  cushat  crooned  and  dreamed, 
All  day  the  sweet  muir-wind  blew  free  : 
Beyond  the  grassy  knowes  far  gleamed 
The  splendour  of  the  singing  sea. 

Above  the  myriad  gorse  and  broom 
And  miles  of  golden  kingcup -bloom 
The  larks  and  yellowhammers  sang  : 
Where     the    scaur    cast    an    hour-long 

gloom 
The  lintie's  liquid  notes  out-rang. 

Oft  as  he  wandered  to  and  fro — 
As  idly  as  the  foam-bells  flow 
Hither  and  thither  on  the  deep — 
Michael  the  Wizard's  face  would  grow 
From     death     to   life,     and    he     would 
weep — 

125 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Weep,  weep  wild  tears  of  bitter  pain 
For  what  might  never  be  again  : 
Yet  even  as  he  wept  his  face 
Would  gleam  with  mockery  insane 
And  with  fierce  laughter  on  he'd  race. 

At  times  he  watched  the  white  clouds  sail 
Across  the  wastes  of  azure  pale ; 
Or  oft  would  haunt  some  moorland  pool 
Fringed  round  with  thyme  and  fragrant  gale 
And  canna-tufts  of  snow-white  wool. 

Long  in  its  depths  would  Michael  stare, 
As  though  some  secret  thing  lay  there  : 
Mayhap  the  moving  water  made 
A  gloom  where  crouched  a  Kelpie  fair 
With  death-eyes  gleaming  through  the  shade. 

Then  on  with  weary  listless  feet 

He  fared  afar,  until  the  sweet 

Cool  sound  of  mountain  brooks  drew  nigh, 

And  loud  he  heard  the  strayed  lambs  bleat 

And  the  white  ewes  responsive  cry. 

High  up  among  the  hills  full  clear 
He  heard  the  belling  of  the  deer 
Amid  the  corries  where  they  browsed, 
And,  where  the  peaks  rose  gaunt  and  sheer, 
Fierce  swirling  echoes  eagle-roused. 
126 


The  Weird,  of  Michael  Scott 

He  watched  the  kestrel  wheel  and  sweep, 
He  watched  the  dun  fox  glide  and  creep, 
He  heard  the  whaup's  long-echoing  call, 
Watched  in  the  stream  the  brown  trout  leap 
And  the  grilse  spring  the  waterfall. 

Along  the  slopes  the  grouse-cock  whirred ; 
The  grey -blue  heron  scarcely  stirred 
Amid  the  mossed  grey  tarn-side  stones  : 
The  burns  gurg-gurgled  through  the  yird 
Their  sweet  clear  bubbling  undertones. 

Above  the  tarn  the  dragon-fly 

Shot  like  a  flashing  arrow  by  ; 

And  in  a  moving  shifting  haze 

The  gnat-clouds  sank  or  soared  on  high 

And  danced  their  wild  aerial  maze. 

As  the  day  waned  he  heard  afar 
The  hawking  fern-owl's  dissonant  jar 
Disturb  the  silence  of  the  hill : 
The  gloaming  came  :  star  after  star 
He  watched  the  skiey  spaces  fill. 

But  as  the  darkness  grew  and  made 
Forest  and  mountain  one  vast  shade, 
Michael  the  Wizard  moaned  in  dread— 
A  long  white  moonbeam  like  a  blade 
Swept  after  him  where'er  he  fled. 
127 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Swiftly  he  leapt  o'er  rock  and  root, 
Swift  o'er  the  fern  his  flying  foot, 
But  swifter  still  the  white  moonbeam  : 
Wild  was  the  grey-owl's  dismal  hoot, 
But  wilder  still  his  maniac  scream. 

Once  in  his  flight  he  paused  to  hear 
A  hollow  shriek  that  echoed  near  : — 
The  louder  were  his  dreadful  cries, 
The  louder  rang  adown  the  sheer 
Gaunt  cliffs  the  echoing  replies. 

As  though  a  hunted  wolf,  he  raced 
To  the  lone  woods  across  the  waste 
Steep  granite  slopes  of  Crammond-Low- 
The  haunted  forest  where  none  faced 
The  terror  that  no  man  might  know. 

Betwixt  the  mountains  and  the  sea 
Dark  leagues  of  pine  stood  solemnly, 
Voiceful  with  grim  and  hollow  song, 
Save  when  each  tempest -stricken  tree 
A  savage  tumult  would  prolong. 

Beneath  the  dark  funereal  plumes, 
Slow  waving  to  and  fro — death-blooms 
Within  the  void  dim  wood  of  death — 
Oft  shuddering  at  the  fearful  glooms 
Sped  Michael  Scott  with  failing  breath. 
128 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

Once,  as  he  passed  a  dreary  place, 
Between  two  trees  he  saw  a  face — 
A  white  face  staring  at  his  own  : 
A  weird  strange  cry  he  gave  for  grace, 
And  heard  an  echoing  moan. 

"  Whate'er  ye  be,  O  thing  that  bides 
Among  the  trees — O  thing  that  hides 
In  yonder  moving  mass  o'  shade 
Come  forth  tae  me  !  " — wan  Michael  glides 
Swift,  as  he  speaks,  athrough  the  glade  : 

"  Whate'er  ye  be,  I  fear  ye  nought ! 
Michael  the  Wizard  has  na  fought 
Wi'  men  and  demons  year  by  year 
To  shirk  ae  thing  he  has  na  sought 
Or  blanch  wi'  any  mortal  fear  !  " 

But  not  a  sound  thrilled  thro'  the  air — 
Not  even  a  she-fox  in  her  lair 
Or  brooding  bird  made  any  stir — 
All  was  as  still  and  blank  and  bare 
As  is  a  vaulted  sepulchre. 

Then  awe,  and  fear,  and  wild  dismay 
O'ercame  mad  Michael,  ashy  grey, 
With  eyes  as  of  one  newly  dead  : 
"  If  wi'  my  sword  I  canna  slay; 
Ye'll  dree  my  weird  when  it  is  said  !  " 
i  129  I 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

"  Whate'er  ye  be,  man,  beast,  or  sprite, 
I  wind  ye  round  wi'  a  sheet  o'  light — 
Aye,  round  and  round  your  burning  frame 
I  cast  by  spell  o'  wizard  might 
A  fierce  undying  sheet  of  flame  !  " 

Swift  as  he  spoke  a  thing  sprang  out, 
A  man-like  thing,  all  hemmed  about 
With  blazing  blasting  burning  fire  ! 
The  wind  swoop'd  wi'  a  demon-shout 
And  whirled  the  red  flame  higher  and  higher 

And  as,  appalled,  wan  Michael  stood 
The  flying  flaughts  swift  fired  the  wood  ; 
And  even  as  he  shook  and  stared 
The  gaunt  pines  turned  the  hue  of  blood 
And  all  the  waving  branches  flared. 

Then  with  wild  leaps  the  accursed  thing 
Drew  nigh  and  nigher  :  with  a  spring 
Michael  escaped  its  fiery  clasp, 
Although  he  felt  the  fierce  flame  sting 
And  all  the  horror  of  its  grasp. 

-i 

Swift  as  an  arrow  far  he  fled, 
But  swifter  still  the  flames  o'erhead 
Rushed  o'er  the  waving  sea  of  pines, 
And  hollow  noises  crashed  and  sped 
Like  splitting  blasts  in  ruin'd  mines. 
130 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scoti 

A  burning  league — leagues,  leagues  of  fire 

Arose  behind,  and  ever  higher 

The  flying  semi-circle  came  : 

And  aye  beyond  this  dreadful  pyre 

There  leapt  a  man-like  thing  in  flame. 

With  awful  scream  doom'd  Michael  saw 
The  flying  furnace  reach  Black-Law  : 
"  Blood,  bride,  and  bier,  the  auld  rune  saith 
Hell's  wind  tae  me  ae  nicht  sail  blaw, 
The  nicht  I  ride  unto  my  death  !  " 

"  The  blood  of  Stair  is  round  me  now  : 
My  bride  can  laugh  to  scorn  my  vow  : 
My  bier,  my  bier,  ah  sail  it  be 
Wi*  a  crown  o'  fire  around  my  brow 
Or  deep  within  the  cauld  saut  sea  !  " 

Like  lightning,  over  Black -Law's  slope 
Michael  fled  swift  with  sudden  hope  : 
What  though  the  forest  roared  behind — 
He  yet  might  gain  the  cliff  and  grope 
For  where  the  sheep-paths  twist  and  wind. 

The  air  was  like  a  furnace-blast 

And  all  the  dome  of  heaven  one  vast 

Expanse  of  flame  and  fiery  wings  : 

To  the  cliff's  edge,  ere  all  be  past, 

With  shriek  on  shriek  lost  Michael  springs. 


The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott 

But  none  can  hear  his  bitter  call, 
None,  none  can  see  him  sway  and  fall- 
Yea,  one  there  is  that  shrills  his  name 
"  0  God,  it  is  my  ain  lost  saul 
That  I  hae  girt  wi*  deathless  flame  !  " 

With  waving  arms  and  dreadful  cries 
He  cowers  beneath  those  glaring  eyes- 
But  all  in  vain — in  vain — in  vain  ! 
His  own  soul  clasps  him  as  its  prize 
And  scorches  death  upon  his  brain. 

Body  and  soul  together  swing 
Adown  the  night  until  they  fling 
The  hissing  sea-spray  far  and  wide  : 
At  morn  the  fresh  sea-wind  will  bring 
\  black  corpse  tossing  on  the  tide. 


132 


THE  TWIN-SOUL 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  a  spirit  came  : 
Her  moon-white  face  and  her  eyes  of  flame 
Were  known  to  me  : — I  called  her  name — 
The  name  that  shall  not  be  spoken  at  all 
Till  Death  hath  this  body  of  mine  in  thrall ! 

And  she  laughed  to  see  me  lying  there, 
Wrapped  in  the  living-corpse  bloody  and  fair, 
And  my  soul  'mid  its  thin  films  shining  bare — 
And  I  rose  and  followed  her  glance  so 

sweet 

And  passed  from  the  house  with  noiseless 
feet. 

I  know  not  myself  what  I  knew,  what  I  saw  ! 

I  know  that  it  filled  me  with  trouble  and  awe, 

With  pain  that  still  at  my  heart  doth  gnaw  : 

That  she  with  her  wild  eyes  witched  my 

soul 

And  whispered  the  name  of  the  Unknown 
Goal. 

133 


The  Twin-Soul 

O,  wild  was  her  laugh,  and  wild  was  my  cry 
When  with  one  long  flash  and  a  weary  sigh 
awoke  as  from  sleep  bewilderingly  : 
Her  voice,  her  eyes,  they  are  with  me  still, 
O  Spirit-Enchantress,  O  Demon-Will ! 


THE  ISLE  OF  LOST  DREAMS 

There  is  an  isle  beyond  our  ken, 
Haunted  by  Dreams  of  weary  men. 
Grey  Hopes  enshadow  it  with  wings 
Weary  with  burdens  of  old  things  : 
There  the  insatiate  water-springs 
Rise  with  the  tears  of  all  who  weep  : 
And  deep  within  it,  deep,  oh  deep 
The  furtive  voice  of  Sorrow  sings. 

There  evermore, 

Till  Time  be  o'er, 

Sad,  oh  so  sad,  the  Dreams  of  men 
Drift  through  the  isle  beyond  our  ken. 


'35 


THE  DEATH-CHILD 

She  sits  beneath  the  elder-tree 

And  sings  her  song  so  sweet, 
And  dreams  o'er  the  burn  that  darksomely 

Runs  by  her  moon- white  feet. 

Her  hair  is  dark  as  starless  night, 
Her  flower-crown'd  face  is  pale, 

But  oh,  her  eyes  are  lit  with  light 
Of  dread  ancestral  bale. 

She  sings  an  eerie  song,  so  wild 

With  immemorial  dule — 
Though  young  and  fair  Death's  mortal  child 

That  sits  by  that  dark  pool. 

And  oft  she  cries  an  eldritch  scream 

When  red  with  human  blood 
The  burn  becomes  a  crimson  stream, 

A  wild,  red,  surging  flood  : 

Or  shrinks,  when  some  swift  tide  of  tears — 

The  weeping  of  the  world — 
Dark  eddying  'neath  man's  phantom-fears, 

Is  o'er  the  red  stream  hurl'd. 
136 


The  Death-Child 

For  hours  beneath  the  elder-tree 
She  broods  beside  the  stream  ; 

Her  dark  eyes  filled  with  mystery, 
Her  dark  soul  rapt  m  dream. 

The  lapsing  flow  she  heedeth  not 
Though  deepest  depths  she  scans  : 

Life  is  the  shade  that  clouds  her  thought, 
As  Death's  the  eclipse  of  man's. 

Time  seems  but  as  a  bitter  thing 

Remember'd  from  of  yore  : 
Yet  ah  (she  thinks)  her  song  she'll  sing 

When  Time's  long  reign  is  o'er. 

Erstwhiles  she  bends  alow  to  hear 

What  the  swift  water  sings, 
The  torrent  running  darkly  clear 

With  secrets  of  all  things. 

And  then  she  smiles  a  strange  sad  smile, 

And  lets  her  harp  lie  long  ; 
The  death- waves  oft  may  rise  the  while, 

She  greets  them  with  no  song. 

Few  ever  cross  that  dreary  moor, 
Few  see  that  flower-crown'd  head  ; 

But  whoso  knows  that  wild  song's  lure 
Knoweth  that  he  is  dead. 

137 


THE  COVES  OF  CRAIL 

The  moon-white  waters  wash  and  leap, 
The  dark  tide  floods  the  Coves  of  Crail ; 

Sound,  sound  he  lies  in  dreamless  sleep, 
Nor  hears  the  sea-wind  wail. 

The  pale  gold  of  his  oozy  locks, 

Doth  hither  drift  and  thither  wave  ; 

His  thin  hands  plash  against  the  rocks, 
His  white  lips  nothing  crave. 

Afar  away  she  laughs  and  sings — 
A  song  he  loved,  a  wild  sea-strain — 

Of  how  the  mermen  weave  their  rings 
Upon  the  reef -set  main. 

Sound,  sound  he  lies  in  dreamless  sleep, 

Nor  hears  the  sea-wind  wail, 
Tho'  with  the  tide  his  white  hands  creep 

Amid  the  Coves  of  Crail. 


138 


FROM 

SOSPIRI  DI  ROMA 


PRELUDE 

Supra  un  munti  sparman  stu  bellu  ciuri 
Chistu  e  lu  ciuri  di  la  to  billizza  I 

Sicilian  Canzuno 

In  a  grove  of  ilex 
Of  oak  and  of  chestnut, 
Far  on  the  sunswept 
Heights  of  Tusculum, 
There  groweth  a  blossom, 
A  snow-white  bloom, 
Which  many  have  heard  of, 
But  few  have  seen. 
Oft  bright  as  the  morning, 
Oft  pale  as  moonlight, 
There  in  the  greenness, 
In  shadow  and  sunshine 
It  grows,  awaiting 
The  hand  that  shall  pluck  it  : 
For  this  blossom  springeth 
From  the  heart  of  a  poet 
And  of  her  who  loved  him 
In  the  long  ago, 
Here  on  the  s-unswept 
141 


Prelude 

Heights  of  Tusculum. 

And  them  it  awaiteth, 

Deep  lovers  only, 

Kindred  of  those 

Who  loved  and  passioned 

There,  and  whose  heart  's-blood 

Wrought  from  the  Earth 

This  marvellous  blossom; 

The  Shadow-Lily, 

The  Flower  of  Dream. 

Few  that  shall  see  it, 

Fewer  still 

Those  that  shall  pluck  it  : 

But  whoso  gathers 

That  snow-white  blossom 

Shall  love  for  ever, 

For  the  passionate  breath 

Of  the  Shadow-Lily 

Is  Deathless  Joy  : 

And  whoso  plucks  it,  keeps  it,  treasures  it, 

Has  sunshine  ever 

About  the  heart, 

Deep  in  the  heart  immortal  sunshine  : 

For  this  is  the  gift  of  the  snow-white 

blossom, 
This  is  the  gift  of  the  Flower  of  Dream. 


142 


SUSURRO 

Breath  o'  the  grass, 
Ripple  of  wandering  wind, 
Murmur  of  tremulous  leaves  : 
A  moonbeam  moving  white 
Like  a  ghost  across  the  plain  : 
A  shadow  on  the  road  : 
And  high  up,  high, 
From  the  cypress-bough; 
A  long  sweet  melancholy  note. 
Silence. 

And  the  topmost  spray 
Of  the  cypress-bough  is  still 
As  a  wavelet  in  a  pool : 
The  road  lies  duskily  bare  : 
The  plain  is  a  misty  gloom  : 
Still  are  the  tremulous  leaves  ; 
Scarce  a  last  ripple  of  wind, 
Scarce  a  breath  i'  the  grass. 
Hush  :  the  tired  wind  sleeps 
Is  it  the  wind's  breath;  or 
Breath  o'  the  grass. 

143 


HIGH  NOON  AT  MIDSUMMER 
ON  THE  CAMPAGNA 

High  noon, 

And  from  the  purple-veiled  hills 

To  where  Rome  lies  in  azure  mist; 

Scarce  any  breath  of  wind 

Upon  this  vast  and  solitary  waste, 

These  leagues  of  sunscorch'd  grass 

Where  i'  the  dawn  the  scrambling  goats 

maintain 
A  hardy  feast; 

And  where,  when  the  warm  yellow  moon- 
light floods  the  f  :ts, 
Gaunt  laggard  sheep  browse  spectrally  for 

hours 
While  not  less  gaunt  and  spectral  shepherds 

stand 

Brooding,  or  with  hollow  vacant  eyes 
Stare    down  the  long  perspectives  of    the 

dusk. 

Now  not  a  breath  : 
No  sound ; 

144 


High  Noon  at  Midsummer  on  the  Campagna 

No  living  thing, 

Save  where  the  beetle  jars  his  crackling 

shards, 

Or  where  the  hoarse  cicala  fills 
The  heavy  heated  hour  with  palpitant  whirr. 
Yet  hark  ! 
Comes  not  a  low  deep  whisper  from  the 

ground, 

A  sigh  as  though  the  immemorial  past 
Breathed  here  a  long,  slow,  breath  ? 
Hush'd  nations  sleep  below  ;    lost  empires 

here 

Are  dust  ;  and  deeper  still, 
Dim  shadowy  peoples  are  the  mould  that 

warms 
The  roots  of  every  flower  that  blooms  and 

blows  : 

Even  as  we,  too,  bloom  and  fade, 
Who  are  so  fain 

To  be  as  the  Night  that  dies  not,  but  forever 
Weaves  her  immortal  web  of  starry  fires  ; 
To  be  as  Time  itself, 
Time,  whose  vast  holocausts 
Lie  here,  deep  buried  from  the  ken  of  men; 
Here,  where  no  breath  of  wind 
Ruffles  the  brooding  heat, 
The  breathless  blazing  heat 
Of  Noon. 


145 


Not  where  thy  turbid  wave 

Flowing  Maremma-ward, 

Moves  heavily,  Tiber, 

Through  Rome  the  Eternal, 

Not  there  her  music,  not  there  her  joy  is  : 

But  where  on  Janiculum 

The  tall  pines 

Sing  their  high  song,  with  deeper  therein, 

like  an  echo 
Heard  in  a  mountain-hollow  where  cataracts 

break, 

A  sound  as  of  surge  and  of  foaming  : 
Yes,  there  where  the  echoing  pines 
Whisper  to  high  wandering  wh  d . 
The  rush  and  the  surge  and  the  splendour 
Where  the  Acqua  Paola  thunders 
Into  its  fount  gigantic, 
With  noise  like  a  tempest  cleaving 
With  mighty  wings 
The  norland  forests. 

146 


The  Fountain  of  the  Acqua  Paola 

From  dayspring,  yellow  and  green 
And  grey  as  a  swan's  breast  feather, 
To  sunset's  amber  and  gold 
And  the  white  star  of  dusk, 
And  through  the  moon-white  hours 
Till  only  Hesperus  hangs 
His  quivering  tremulous  disc 
O'er  the  faint-flushed  forehead  of  Dawn- 
All  hours,  all  days,  forever 
Surgeth  the  singing  flood, 
With  chant  and  paean  glorious, 
With  foam  and  splash  and  splendour, 
A  music  wild,  barbaric, 
That  calleth  loud  over  Rome, 
Laughing,  mocking,  rejoicing  : 
The  sound  of  the  waves  when  Ocean 
Laughs  at  the  vanishing  land 
And,  fronting  her  shoreless  leagues, 
Remembers  the  ruined  empires 
That  now  are  the  drift  and  shingle 
In  cavernous  hollows  under 
Her  zone  of  Oblivion, 
Silence  that  nought  shall  break, 
Eternal  calm. 

Foam,  spray  and  splendour 
Of  rushing  waters, 
Grey-blue  as  the  pale  blue  dome 
That  circleth  the  morning  star 
147 


The  Fountain  of  the  Acqua  Paolo. 

While  still  his  fires  are  brighter 
Than  the  wanwhite  fire  of  the  moon. 
Foam,  spray,  and  surge 
Of  rushing  waters  ! 
O  the  hot  flood  of  sunshine 
Yellowly  pouring 

Over  and  into  thee,  jubilant  Fountain  : 
Thy  cataracts  filled 
With  vanishing  rainbows, 
Shimmering  lights 
As  though  the  Aurora's 
Wild  polar  fires 

Flashed  in  thy  happy  bubbles,  died  in  thy 
foam. 

Ever  in  joyous  laughter 
Thy  wavelets  are  dancing, 
Little  waves  with  crests  bright  with  sun- 
light 

Tossing  their  foamy  arms, 
Laughing  and  leaping, 
Whirling,  inweaving, 
Rippling  at  last  and  sleepily  laving 
The  mossed  stone-barriers 
That  clasp  them  round. 
Bright  too  and  joyous, 
They,  in  the  moonshine, 
When  the  falling  waters 
Are  as  wreaths  of  snow 


The  Fountain  of  the  Acqua  Paolo, 

Falling  for  ever 
Down  mountain-flanks, 
Like  melting  snows 
In  the  high  hill-hollows 
Seen  from  the  valleys 
And  seeming  to  fall, 
To  fall  forever 
A  flower  of  water, 
Silent,  and  stirred  not 
By  any  wind. 

Bright  too  and  joyous 
In  darkling  nights, 
When  the  moon  shroudeth 
Her  face  in  a  veil 
Of  cloudy  vapours, 
Or,  like  a  flower 
F  the  wane  of  its  beauty, 
Droopeth  and  falleth 
Till  lost  to  sight, 
Stoopeth  and  fadeth 
Into  the  dark — 
Or  when  like  a  sickle 
Thin  and  silvern 
She  moveth  slowly 
Through  the  starry  fields, 
Moveth  slowly 
'Mid  the  flowers  of  the  stars 
In  the  harvest-fields 
149 


The  Fountain  of  the  Acqua  Paota 

Of  Eternity  : 
Bright  too  and  joyous; 
For  then  the  shadows 
Play  with  the  foam-lights; 
With  the  flying  whiteness; 
And  snowy  surging. 
But  brighter,  more  joyous, 
Save  when  the  moon-flower 
In  all  her  splendour 
Floats  on  thy  bosom, 
Or,  rather,  dreameth 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  thee 
O  happy  Fountain  : 
Brighter,  more  joyous, 
Thee,  when  amidst  thee, 
Strewn  through  thy  waters; 
The  stars  are  sown 
As  seed  multitudinous; 
As  silvern  seed 
In  thy  shadowy-furrows : 
Seed  of  the  skiey  flowers 
That  in  the  heavens 
Bloom  forever, 
Blossoms  and  blooms  of 
Eternal  splendour. 
Then  is  thy  joy  most; 
O  jubilant  Fountain; 
Then  are  thy  waters 
Sweetest  of  song; 
150 


The  Fountain  of  the  Acqua  Paola 

Then  do  thy  waters 

Surge,  leap,  rejoicing, 

Lave,  and  lapse  slowly 

To  haunted  stillness 

And  darkling  dreams  : 

Then  is  thy  music  rarest, 

Wildest  and  sweetest 

Music  of  Rome — 

Rome  the  Eternal, 

Through  whose  heart  of  shadow 

Moveth  slowly 

Flowing  Maremma-ward 

Thy  murmur,  Tiber, 

Thy  muffled  voice, 

Whom  none  interpreteth 

But  boding,  ominous, 

Is  as  the  sound  of 

Murmurous  seas 

Heard  afar  inland — 

There,  where  Maremma-ward 

Flowing  heavily, 

Moveth,  Tiber, 

Thy  turbid  wave. 


CLOUDS 
(Agro  Romano) 

As  though  the  dead  cities 

Of  the  ancient  time 

Were  builded  again 

In  the  heights  of  heaven, 

With  spires  of  amber 

And  golden  domes, 

Wide  streets  of  topaz  and  amethyst  ways  ; 

Far  o'er  the  pale  blue  waste, 

Oft  purple-shadowed, 

Of  the  Agro  Romano, 

Rises  the  splendid 

City  of  Cloud. 

There  must  the  winds  be  soft  as  the  twilight 

Invisibly   falling  when    the    day-star  has 

wester'd ; 
There  must  the  rainbows  trail  up  through 

the  sunlight, 
So  fair  are  the  hues  on  those  white  snowy 

masses. 
Mountainous  glories, 

152 


Clouds 

They  move  superbly ; 

Crumbling  so  slowly, 

That  none  perceives  when 

The  golden  domes 

Are  sunk  in  the  valleys 

Of  fathomless  snow, 

Or  when,  in  silence, 

The  loftiest  spires 

Fade  into  smoke,  or  as  vapour  that  passeth 

When  the  hot  breath  of  noon 

Thirsts  through  the  firmament. 

Beautiful,  beautiful, 

The  City  of  Cloud, 

In  splendour  ruinous, 

With  golden  domes, 

And  spires  of  amber, 

Builded  superbly 

In  the  heights  of  heaven. 


153 


RED  POPPIES 

(In  the  Sabine  valleys  near  Rome) 

Through  the  seeding  grass, 

And  the  tall  corn, 

The  wind  goes  : 

With  nimble  feet, 

And  blithe  voice, 

Calling,  calling, 

The  wind  goes 

Through  the  seeding  grass, 

And  the  tall  corn. 

What  calleth  the  wind, 
Passing  by — 
The  shepherd-wind  ? 
Far  and  near 
He  laugheth  low 
And  the  red  poppies 
Lift  their  heads 
And  toss  i'  the  sun. 
A  thousand  thousand  blooms 
Tost  i'  the  air, 
154 


Red  Poppies 

Banners  of  joy, 

For  'tis  the  shepherd-wind 

Passing  by, 

Singing  and  laughing  low 

Through  the  seeding  grass 

And  the  tall  corn. 


155 


THE  WHITE  PEACOCK 

Here  where  the  sunlight 

Floodeth  the  garden, 

Where  the  pomegranate 

Reareth  its  glory 

Of  gorgeous  blossom ; 

Where  the  oleanders 

Dream  through  the  noontides  ; 

And,  like  surf  o'  the  sea 

Round  clifis  of  basalt, 

The  thick  magnolias 

In  billowy  masses 

Front  the  sombre  green  of  the  ilexes 

Here  where  the  heat  lies 

Pale  blue  in  the  hollows, 

Where  blue  are  the  shadows 

On  the  fronds  of  the  cactus, 

Where  pale  blue  the  gleaming 

Of  fir  and  cypress, 

With  the  cones  upon  them 

Amber  or  glowing 

With  virgin  gold  : 

156 


The  White  Peacock 

Here  where  the  honey-flower 

Makes  the  heat  fragrant, 

As  though  from  the  gardens 

Of  Gulistan, 

Where  the  bulbul  singeth 

Through  a  mist  of  roses 

A  breath  were  borne  : 

Here  where  the  dream-flowers; 

The  cream-white  poppies 

Silently  waver, 

And  where  the  Scirocco, 

Faint  in  the  hollows, 

Foldeth  his  soft  white  wings  in  the  sunlight, 

A.nd  lieth  sleeping 

Deep  in  the  heart  of 

A  sea  of  white  violets  : 

Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of   this 
beauty 

Moveth  in  silence,  and  dreamlike,  and  slowly, 

White  as  a  snow-drift  in  mountain-valleys 

When  softly  upon  it  the  gold  light  lingers  : 

White  as  the  foam  o'  the  sea  that  is  driven 

O'er  billows   of   azure   agleam   with    sun- 
yellow  : 

Cream-white  and  soft  as  the  breasts  of  a  girl, 

Moves    the    White    Peacock,    as     though 
through  the  noontide 

A  dream  of  the  moonlight  were  real  for  a 
moment. 

157 


The  White  Peacock 

Dim  on  the  beautiful  fan  that  he  spreadeth, 

Foldeth  and  spreadeth  abroad  in  the  sun- 
light, 

Dim  on  the  cream-white  are  blue  adum- 
brations, 

Shadows  so  pale  in  their  delicate  blueness 

That  visions  they  seem  as  of  vanishing 
violets, 

The  fragrant  white  violets  veined  with 
azure, 

Pale,  pale  as  the  breath  of  blue  smoke  in  far 
woodlands. 

Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of  this 
beauty, 

White  as  a  cloud  through  the  heats  of  the 
noontide 

Moves  the  White  Peacock. 


158 


THE  SWIMMER  OF  NEMI 

(The  Lake  of  Nemi  :  September) 

White  through  the  azure, 

The  purple  blueness, 

Of  Nemi's  waters 

The  swimmer  goeth. 

Ivory-white,  or  wan  white  as  roses 

Yellowed  and  tanned  by  the  suns  of   the 

Orient, 

His  strong  limbs  sever  the  violet  hollows  ; 
A  shimmer  of  white  fantastic  motions 
Wavering   deep   through   the   lake   as    he 

swimmeth. 
Like  gorse  in  the  sunlight  the  gold  of  his 

yellow  hair, 
Yellow  with  sunshine  and  bright  as    with 

dew-drops, 

Spray  of  the  waters  flung  back  as  he  tosseth 
His  head  i'  the  sunlight  in  the  midst  of  his 

laughter  : 
Red  o'er  his  body,  blossom-white  'mid  the 

blueness, 

159 


The  Swimmer  of  Nemi 

And  trailing  behind  him  in  glory  of  scarlet, 
A  branch   of  the  red-berried  ash  of    the 

mountains. 

White  as  a  moonbeam 
Drifting  athwart 
The  purple  twilight, 
The  swimmer  goeth — 
Joyously  laughing, 
With  o'er  his  shoulders, 
Agleam  in  the  sunshine 
The  trailing  branch 
With  the  scarlet  berries. 
Green  are  the  leaves,  and  scarlet  the  berries, 
White  are  the  limbs  of  the  swimmer  beyond 

them, 
Blue  the  deep  heart  of  the  still,   brooding 

lakelet, 

Pale-blue  the  hills  in  the  haze  of  September, 
The  high  Alban  hills  in  their  silence    and 

beauty, 

Purple  the  depths  of  the  windless  heaven 
Curv'd  like  a  flower  o'er  the  waters  of  Nemi. 


160 


AL  FAR  BELLA  NOTTE 

Hark! 

As  a  bubbling  fount 

That  suddenly  wells 

And  rises  in  tall  spiral  waves  and    flying 

spray, 

The  high,  sweet,  quavering,  throbbing  voice 
Of  the  nightingale  ! 

Not  yet  the  purple  veil  of  dusk  has  fallen, 
But  o'er  the  yellow  band 
That  binds  the  west 
The   vesper  star  beats  like  the  pulse    of 

heaven. 

Up  from  the  fields 

The  peasants  troop 

Singing  their  songs  of  love  : 

And   oft   the  twang  of  thin  string'd  music 

breaks 

High  o'er  the  welcoming  shouts, 
The  homing  laughter. 
The  whirling  bats  are  out, 
And  to  and  fro 
I  161  L 


Al  Far  delta  Notte 

The  blue  swifts  wheel 

Where,  i'  the  shallows  of  the  dusk; 

The  grey  moths  flutter 

Over  the  pale  blooms 

Of  the  night -flowering  bay. 

Softly  adown  the  slopes, 

And  o'er  the  plain, 

Ave  Maria 

Solemnly  soundeth. 

The  long  day  is  over. 

Dusk,  and  silence  now  : 

And  Night,  that  is  as  dew 

On  the  Flower  of  the  World. 


162 


THISTLEDOWN 
(Spring  on  the  Campagna) 

Bloweth  like  snow 
From  the  grey  thistles 
The  thistledown  : 
And  the  fairy-feathers 
O'  the  dandelion 
Are  tossed  by  the  breeze 
Hither  and  thither : 
Over  the  grasses, 
The  seeding  grasses 
Where  the  poppies  shake 
And  the  campions  waver; 
And  where  the  clover, 
Purple  and  white, 
Fills  leagues  with  the  fragrance 
Of  sunsweet  honey ; 
Hither  and  thither 
The  fairy-feathers 
O'  the  dandelion, 
And  white  puff-balls 
O'  the  thistledown, 
Merrily  dancing, 
Light  on  the  breeze; 
163 


Thistledown 

Wheeling  and  sailing, 
And  laughing  to  scorn 
The  butterflies 
And  the  moths  of  azure  ; 
Blowing  like  snow 
Or  foam  o'  the  sea, 
Hither  and  thither 
Upward  and  downward. 

Now  for  a  moment 
A  thistledown 
On  a  white  ball  resteth, 
Sunbleached  and  hollow ; 
A  human  skull 
Of  the  ancient  days, 
When  Sabines  and  Latins 
Made  all  the  land  here 
As  red  with  blood 
As  it  now  is  scarlet 
With  flaming  poppies. 
Now  the  feathers, 
O'  the  dandelion, 
Like  sunlit  swan's-down 
Long  tost  by  the  wind 
O'er  the  laughter  of  waters; 
Are  blown  like  surf 
On  a  hidden  rock — 
A  broken  arch 
Of  a  Roman  temple, 
164 


Thistledown 

Where  long,  long  ago, 

The  swarthy  priests 

Worshipped  their  Gods, 

The  Gods  now  less  than 

The  very  dust 

Whence  the  green  grass  springeth  ! 

But  for  a  moment,  then  the  wind  takes 
them, 

Blows  them,  plays  with  them, 

Tosses  them  high  through  the  gold  of  the 
sunshine, 

Wavers  them  upward,  wavers  them  down- 
ward. 

Hither  and  thither  among  the  white  butter- 
flies, 

Over  and  under  the  blue-moths  and  honey- 
bees, 

Over  the  leagues  of  blossoming  clover, 

Purple  and  white,  the  sweet -smelling  clover, 

Far  o'er  the  grasses, 

And  grey  hanging  thistles, 

Hither  and  thither 

Are  floating  and  sailing 

The  fairy-feathers 

O'  the  dandelion, 

Bloweth  like  snow 

The  joy  o'  the  meadows, 

The  thistledown. 


165 


THE  SHEPHERD 

(Near  the  Theatre  of  Marcellus  : 
Piazza  Montanara] 

Solitary  he  stands, 
Clad  in  his  goat -skins, 
Though  all  about  him 
The  busy  throng 
Cometh  and  goeth. 
Overhead,  the  vast  ruin, 
Wind-worn,  time-wrought ; 
Gloomily  rises. 
Scarce  doth  he  note  it, 
Yet  doth  it  give  him 
The  touch  of  nearness, 
Which  the  soul  craves  for 
In  alien  places  : 
As  the  strayed  mariner, 
Yearning,  far  inland, 
For  sight  of  the  sea, 
Smiles  when  he  fingers  a  rope,  or 
Heareth  the  wind 
Surge  round  the  hedgerows 
166 


The  Shepherd 

As  erst  through  the  cordage  ; 

Or,  on  the  endless,  dusty,  white  high-road 

Puts  his  ear  to  the  pole 

Vibrating  with  song,  as  the  mast 

Ere  while  rang  with  the  hum 

Of  the  hurricane. 

What  doth  he  here, 
Away  from  the  pastures 
On  the  desolate  Campagna  ? 
From  his  haggard  face 
Sorrowfully  his  wild  black  eyes 
Stare  on  the  weariness, 
The  noise,  and  hurry, 
And  surge  of  the  traffic. 
Sometimes,  a  faint  smile 
Flitteth  athwart  his  face, 
When  a  woman,  from  the  well, 
Passeth  by  with  a  conca 
Poised  on  her  head  : 
Thus  oft  hath  he  seen 
The  peasant  girls 
In  the  little  hamlets 
Far  out  on  the  plain: 
Or  when  a  wine-cart 
With  its  tall  cappoto 

A-swing  like  a  high  tent  windswayed  sidewise, 
Rattles  in  from  the  Appian  highway, 
White  with  the  dust  of  the  Alban  hills. 
167 


The  Shepherd 

What  doth  he  here, 
He  in  whose  eyes  are 
The  passion  of  the  desert : 
He  in  whose  ears  rings 
The  free  music 
Of  the  winds  that  wander 
Through  the  desert -ruins  ? 
Not  here,  O  Shepherd, 
Wouldst  thou  fain  dwell, 
Though  in  the  Holy  City 
God's  Regent  lives  : 
Better  the  desolate  waste, 
Better  the  free  lone  life, 
For  there  thou  canst  breathe, 
There  silence  abideth, 
There,  not  the  Regent, 
But  God  himself 
Dwelleth  and  speaketh. 


168 


THE  MANDOLIN 

Tinkle-trink,      tinkle-trink,      trinkle-trinkle, 

trmk  ! 

Hark,  the  mandolin  ! 
Through  the  dusk  the  merry  music  falleth 

sweet. 

Where  the  fountain  falls, 
Where  theifountain  falls  all  shimmering  in 

the  moonshine  white, 
Tinkle-trink,       tinkle-trink,      trinkle-trinkle, 

trink  I 

Where  the  wind-stirred  olives  quiver, 
Quiver,  quiver,  leaves  a-quiver, 
White  as  silver  in  the  moonlight  but    like 

bat -wings  in  the  dusk, 
Where  the  great  grey  moths  sail  slowly 
Slowly,  slowly,  like  faint  dreams 
In  the  wildering  woods  of  Sleep, 
Where  no  night  or  day  is, 
But  only,  in  dim  twilights,  the  wan  sheen 
Of  the  Moon  of  Sleep. 

Hark,  the  mandolin  ! 
Where  the  dark-coned  cypress  rises, 
169 


The  Mandolin 

Thin,  more  thin,  till  threadlike,  wavering 

The  last  spray  soars  up  as  smoke, 

As  a  vanishing  breath  of  incense, 

To  the  silent  stars  that  glimmer 

In  the  veil  of  purple  darkness, 

The  deep  vault  of  heaven  that  seemeth 

As  a  veil  that  falleth, 

A  dark  veil  that  foldeth  gently 

The  tired  day-worn  world,  breathing  stilly 

as  a  sleeping  child. 
Hark,  the  mandolin : 
And  a  soft  low  sound  of  laughter  ! 
Tinkle-trink,      tinkle-trink,      trinkle-trinkle, 

trink  ! 

Hush  :  from  out  the  cypress  standing 

Black  against  the  yellow  moonlight 

What  a  thrill,   what  a  sob,  what  a  sudden 

rapture  flung 
Athwart  the  dark ! 
Passion  of  song  ! 
Silence    again,    save   'mid    the    whispering 

leaves 

The  unquiet  wind,  that  as  the  tide 
Cometh  and  goeth. 
Now  one  long  thrilling  note,  prolonged  and 

sweet, 

And  then  a  low  swift  stir, 
A  whirr  of  fluttering  wings, 
170 


The  Mandolin 

And,  in  the  laurels  near,  two  nested  nightin- 
gales ! 

Loud,  loud,  the  mandolin, 

Tinkle-trink,  tinkle-trink,  trinkle-trinkle, 
trink, 

Trink,  trink,  trinkle-trink  ! 

Through  the  fragrant  silent  night  it  draweth 
near, 

Ah,  the  low  cry,  the  little  laugh,  the  rustle  : 

Tinkle-trink — hush,  a  kiss — tinkle-trink — 
hush — hush — 

Tinkle-trink,  tinkle-trink,  trinkle-trinkle, 
trink  ! 

Where  the  shadows  massed  together 

Make  a  hollow  darkness,  girt 

By  the  yellow  flood  of  moonshine   floating 

ty> 

Where  the  groves  of  ilex  whisper 
In  the  silence,  fragrant,  sweet, 
Where  the  ilexes  are  dreaming 
In  their  depths  of  darkest  shadow, 
Move  the  fireflies  slowly, 
Mazily  inweaving, 
Interweaving,  interflowing ; 
Wandering  fires,  like  little  lanterns 
Borne  by  souls  of  birds  and  flowers 
Seeking  ever  resurrection 
In  the  gladsome  world  of  sunshine  ; 


The  Mandolin 

Seekly  vainly  through  the  darkness 

In  beneath  the  ilex-branches 

Where  the  very  moonshine  faileth, 

And  the  dark  grey  moths  wave  wanly 

Flitting  from  the  outer  gloaming. 

Oh,  the  fragrance,  and  the  mystery,  and  the 

silence  ! 

Where  the  fireflies,  'mid  the  ilex, 
Rise  and  fall,  recross,  inweave 
In  an  endless  wavy  motion, 
In  a  slow  aerial  dancing 
In  a  maze  of  little  flames 
In  and  out  the  ilex-branches : 
Hush  !  the  mandolin  ! 
Louder  still,  and  louder,  louder  : 
Ah,  the  happy  laugh,  and  rustle, 
Rustle,  rustle, 

Ah,  the  kiss,  the  cry,  the  rapture. 
Silence,  where  the  ilex-branches 
Loom  out  faintly  from  their  darkness 
Where,  slow-wandering  flames,  the  fireflies 
Rise  and  fall,  recross,  inweave 
In  an  endless  wavy  motion, 
In  a  slow  aerial  dancing. 

Silence  :  not  a  breath  is  stirring  : 
Not  a  leaflet  quivers  faintly. 
Silence  :  even  the  bats  are  silent 
Wheeling  swiftly  through  the  upper  air, 
172 


The  Mandolin 

Where  the  gnat's  thin  shrilling  music 
Fades  into  the  flooding  moonlight  : 
Hush,  low  whispered  words  and  kisses; 
Hush,  a  cry  of  pain,  of  rapture. 
Not  a  sound,  a  sound  thereafter, 
But  a  low  sweet  sigh  of  breathing, 
And,  from  out  the  flowering  laurel, 
Just  a  twittering  breath  of  music, 
Just  a  long-drawn  pulsing  note 
Of  a  sweet  and  passionate  answer. 
Silence  :  hark,  a  stir — low  laughter — 
Whispered  words — and  rustle — rustle — 
Trink — trink — the  mandolin  ! 
Hark,  it  trinkles  down  the  valley, 
Trink-trink,  trinkle-trink,  trinkle-trink  ! 
Past  the  cistus,  blooming  whitely, 
Past  the  oleander-bushes, 
Past  the  ilexes  and  olives, 
Where  the  two  tall  pines  are  whispering 
With  the  sleepy  wind  that  foldeth 
His  tired  pinions  ere  he  sleepeth 
On  the  flood  of  amber  moonlight. 
Wind  o'  the  night,  tired  wind  o'  night — 
Tinkle-trink,  trink,  trinkle-trink, 
Trink,  trinkle-trink, 
Trink  ! 


173 


BAT-WINGS 

Flitter,  flitter,  through  the  twilight, 

Pipistrello  : 

Where  the  moonshine  glitters 

Waver  thy  swart  wings, 

Darting  hither,  thither, 

Swift  as  wheeling  swallow. 

Where  the  shadows  gather 

In  and  out  thou  flittest, 

Flitter,  flitter, 

Waver,  waver, 

Pipistrello. 

Thin  thy  faint  aerial  song  is, 

Thin  and  fainter  than  the  shrilling 

Of  the  gnats  thou  chasest  wildly, 

But  how  delicately  dainty — 

Thin  and  faint  and  wavering  also, 

In  the  high  sweet  upper  air, 

Where  the  gnats  weave  endless  mazes 

In  their  pyramidal  dances — 

And  thy  dusky  wings  go  flutter, 

Flutter,  flutter, 

Waver,  waver, 

But  without  a  sound  or  rustle 

Through  the  purple  air  of  twilight. 

Flitter,  flitter,  flutter,  flitter, 

Pipistrello. 

174 


LA  VELIA 
(The  Sea-Gull :  Pontine  Marshes) 

Here  where  the  marsh 
Waves  white  with  ranunculus, 
Where  the  yellow  daffodil 
Flieth  his  banner 
In  the  fetid  air, 
And  oft  'mid  the  bulrushes 
Rustleth  the  porcupine 
Or  surgeth  the  boar — 
Though  bloweth  rarely 
The  fresh  wind, 
The  Tramontana, 
And  only  Scirocco 
Heavily  lifts 

The  feathery  plumes  the  tall  canes  carry 
What  dost  thou  here, 
O  bird  of  the  ocean  ? 
Here,  where  the  marshes 
Are  never  stirred 
By  the  pulse  of  the  tides  ; 
Here  where  the  white  mists 
175 


La  Velia 

Crawl  on  the  swamp, 

But  never  the  rush  and  the  surge  of   the 

billows  ? 
White  as  a  snowflake  thou  gleamest,    and 

passest  : 

Drearier  now  the  chill  waste  of  the  Stagno, 
Wearier  now  the  dull  silence  and  boding. 
Would  that  again 
Thy  glad  presence  were  gleaming 
Here  where  the  marsh 
Steams  white  in  the  sunshine  ; 
For  swift  on  my  sight, 
As  thy  white  wings  wavered, 
Broke  the  sea  in  its  beauty, 
With  foam,  and  splendour 
Of  rolling  waves  : 
And  loud  on  my  ears  (O  the  longing,   the 

yearning) 

When  thy  cry  filled  the  silence, 
Came  the  surge  of  the  sea 
And  the  tumult  of  waters. 


176 


SPUMA  DAL  MARE 
(On  the  Latin  Coast) 

Flower  o'  the  wave, 

White  foam  of  the  waters; 

The  many-coloured  : 

Here  blue  as  a  hare-bell, 

Here  pale  as  the  turquoise  ; 

Here  green  as  the  grasses 

Of  mountain  hollows, 

Here  lucent  as  jade  when  wet  in  the  sun- 
shine, 

Here  paler  than  apples  ere  ruddied  by 
autumn. 

Depths  o'  the  purple  ! 

Amethyst  yonder, 

Yonder  as  ling  on  the  hills  of  October, 

With  shadows  as  deep, 

Where  islets  of  sea-wrack 

Wave  in  the  shallows, 

As  the  sheen  of  the  feathers 

On  the  blue-green  breast 

Of  the  bird  of  the  Orient, 

The  splendid  peacock. 

I  177  M 


Sfiuma  dot  Mare 

Foam  o'  the  waves, 

White  crests  ashine 

With  a  dazzle  of  sunlight ! 

Here  the  low  breakers  are  rolling  through 

shallows, 

Yellow  and  muddied,  the  hue  of  the  topaz 
Ere  cut  from  the  boulder  ; 
Save  when  the  sunlight  swims  through  them 

slantwise, 

When  inward  they  roll 
Long  billows  of  amber, 
Crowned  with  pale  yellow 
And  grey-green  spume. 
Here  wan  grey  their  slopes 
Where  the  broken  lights  reach  them, 
Dull  grey  of  pearl,  and  dappled,  and 

darkling, 

As  when  'mid  the  high 
Northward  drift  of  the  clouds; 
Scirocco  bloweth 
With  soft  fanning  breath. 

Foam  o'  the  waves, 
Blown  blossoms  of  ocean, 
White  flowers  of  the  waters; 
The  many-coloured. 


178 


THE  BATHER 

Where  the  sea-wind  ruffles 

The  pale  pink  blooms 

Of  the  fragrant  Daphne, 

And  passeth  softly 

Over  the  sward 

Of  the  cyclamen-blossoms, 

The  Bather  stands. 

Rosy  white,  as  a  cloud  at  the  dawning, 

Silent  she  stands, 

And  looks  far  seaward, 

As  a  seabird,  dreaming 

On  some  lone  rock, 

Poiseth  his  pinions 

Ere  over  the  waters 

He  moves  like  a  vision 

On  motionless  wings. 

Beautiful,  beautiful, 
The  sunlit  gleam 
Of  her  naked  body, 

Ivory-white  'mid  the  cyclamen-blossoms 
179 


The  Bather 

A  wave  o'  the  sea  'mid  the  blooms  of  the 

Daphne. 

Blue  as  the  innermost  heart  of  the  ocean 
The  arch  of  the  sky  where  the  wood  runneth 

seaward, 

Blue  as  the  depths  of  the  innermost  heaven 
The  vast  heaving  breast  of  the  slow-moving 

waters  : 
Green  the  thick  grasses  that  run  from  the 

woodland, 
Green   as  the   heart   of  the    foam-crested 

billows 

Curving  a  moment  ere  washing  far  inland 
Up  the  long  reach  of  the  sands   gleaming 

golden. 

The  land-breath  beareth 
Afar  the  fragrance 
Of  thyme  and  basil 
And  clustered  rosemary ; 
And  o'er  the  fennel, 
And  through  the  broom; 
It  floateth  softly, 
As  the  wind  of  noon 
That  cometh  and  goeth 
Though  none  hearkens 
Its  downy  wings. 
And  keen,  the  seawind 
Bears  up  the  odours 
Of  blossoming  pinks 

180 


The  Bather 

And  salt  rock-grasses, 
Of  rustling  seaweed 
And  mosses  of  pools 
Where  the  rosy  blooms 
Of  the  sea-flowers  open 
'Mid  stranded  waves. 
As  a  water-lily 
Touched  by  the  breath 
Of  sunrise-glory, 
Moveth  and  swayeth 
With  tremulous  joy, 
So  o'er  the  sunlit 
White  gleaming  body 
Of  the  beautiful  bather 
Passeth  a  quiver 

Rosy-white,  as  a  cloud  at  the  dawning; 
Poised  like  a  swallow  that  meeteth  the  wind; 
For  a  moment  she  standeth 
Where  the  sea-wind  softly 
Moveth  over 

The  thick  pink  sward  of  the   cyclamen- 
blossoms. 

Moveth  and  rustleth 
With  faint  susurrus 
The  pale  pink  blooms 
Of  the  fragrant  Daphne. 


181 


THE  WILD  MARE 

Like  a  breath  that  comes  and  goes 

O'er  the  waveless  waste 

Of  sleeping  Ocean, 

So  sweeps  across  the  plain 

The  herd  of  wild  horses. 

Like  banners  in  the  wind 

Their  flying  tails, 

Their  streaming  manes  : 

And  like  spume  of  the  sea 

Fang'd  by  breakers, 

The  white  froth  tossed  from  their  blood-red 

nostrils. 

Out  from  the  midst  of  them 
Dasheth  a  white  mare, 
White  as  a  swan  in  the  pride  of  her  beauty  : 
And,  like  the  whirlwind, 
Following  after, 
A  snorting  stallion, 
Swart  as  an  Indian 
Diver  of  coral ! 
Wild  the  gyrations, 
The  rush  and  the  whirl ; 
182 


The  Wild  Mare 

Loud  the  hot  panting 

Of  the  snow-white  mare; 

As  swift  upon  her 

The  stallion  gaineth  : 

Fierce  the  proud  snorting 

Of  him,  victorious  : 

And  loud,  swelling  loud  on  the  wind   from 

the  mountains, 
The  hoarse  savage  tumult  of  neighing  and 

stamping 
Where,  wheeling,  the  herd  of  wild   horses 

awaiteth — 
Ears   thrown   back,   tails   thrashing    their 

flanks  or  swept  under — 
The  challenging  scream  of  the    conqueror - 

stallion. 


SCIROCCO 

(June) 

Softly  as  feathers 

That  fall  through  the  twilight 

When  wild  swans  are  winging 

Back  to  the  northward  : 

Softly  as  waters, 

Unruffled,  and  tideless; 

Laving  the  mosses 

Of  inland  seas  : 

Soft  through  the  forest; 

And  down  through  the  valley, 

Light  as  a  breath  o'er  the  pools  of  the 

marish, 

Still  as  a  moonbeam  over  the  pastures, 
Goeth  Scirocco. 

Warm  his  breath : 
The  night-flowers  know  it; 
Love  it,  and  open 
Their  blooms  for  its  sweetness  : 
Warm  the  tender  low  wind  of  his  pinions 
184 


Scirocco 

Scarce  brushing  together  the  spires  of  the 

grasses  : 

Ah,  how  they  whisper,  the  little  green  leaflets 
Black  in  the  dusk  or  grey  in  the  moonlight  : 
Ah,  how  they  whisper  and  shiver,  the 

tremulous 

Leaves  of  the  poplar,  and  shimmer  and  rustle 
When  soft  as  a  vapour  that  steals  from  the 

marshes 
The  wings  of  Scirocco  fan  silently  through 

them. 

Oft-times  he  lingers 
By  ruined  nests 
Deep  in  the  hedgerows; 
And  bloweth  a  feather 
In  little  eddies, 
A  yellow  feather 
That  once  had  fluttered 
On  a  breast  alive  with 
A  rapture  of  song  : 
But  slowly  ceaseth; 
And  passeth  sadly. 
Oft-times  he  riseth 
Up  through  the  branches 
Where  the  fireflies  wander 
Up  through  the  branches 
Of  oak  and  chestnut; 
And  stirs  so  gently 

185 


Sciroccd 

With  sway  of  his  wings 

That  the  leaves,  dreaming, 

Think  that  a  moonbeam 

Only,  or  moonshine, 

Moves  through  the  heart  of  them. 

Upward  he  soareth 

Oft,  silently  floating 

Through  the  purple  aether, 

Still  as  the  fern-owl  over  the  covert, 

Or  as  allocco  haunting  the  woodland, 

Up  to  the  soft  curded  foam  of  the  cloudlets, 

The   white  dappled    cloudlets  the   south- 
wind  bringeth. 

There,  dreaming,  he  moveth 

Or  sails  through  the  moonlight, 

Till  chill  in  the  high  upper  air  and    the 
silence, 

Slowly  he  sinketh 

Earthward  again, 

Silently  floateth 

Down  o'er  the  woodlands  : 

Foldeth  his  wings  and  slow  through  the 
branches 

Drifts,  scarcely  breathing, 

Till  tired,  'mid  the  flowers  or  the  hedgerows 
he  creepeth, 

Whispers  alow  'mid  the  spires  of  the  grasses; 

Or  swooning  at  last  to  motionless  slumber 

Floats  like  a  shadow  adrift  on  the  pastures. 
186 


THE  WIND  AT  FIDENAE 

Fresh  from  the  Sabines, 

The  Beautiful  Hills, 

The  wind  bloweth. 

Down  o'er  the  slopes, 

Where  the  olives  whiten 

As  though  the  feet 

Of  the  wind  were  snow-clad  : 

Out  o'er  the  plain 

Where  a  paradise 

Of  wild  blooms  waveth, 

And  where,  in  the  suns  wept 

Leagues  of  azure, 

A  thousand  larks  are 

As  a  thousand  founts 

'Mid  the  perfect  joy  of 

The  depth  of  heaven,  j 

Swift  o'er  the  heights; 

And  over  the  valleys 

Where  the  grey  oxen  sleepily  stand, 

Down,  like  a  wild  hawk  swooping  earthward, 

Over  the  winding  reaches  of  Tiber, 

Bloweth  the  wind  ! 

187 


The  Wind  at  Fidenae 

How  the  wind  bloweth; 

Here  on  the  steeps  of 

Ancient  Fidenae, 

Where  no  voice  soundeth 

Now,  save  the  shepherd 

Calling  his  sheep ; 

And  where  none  wander 

But  only  the  cloud-shadows, 

Vague  ghosts  of  the  past. 

Sweet  and  fresh  from  the  Sabines; 

Now  as  of  yore, 

When  Etruscan  maidens 

Laughed  as  their  lovers 

Mocked  the  damsels 

Of  alien  Rome, 

Sweet  with  the  same  young  breath  o'  the 

world 
Bloweth  the  wind. 


188 


SORGENDO  DA  LUNA 

No  sound; 

Save  the  hush'd  breath, 

The  slowly  flowinr, 

The  long  and  low  withdrawing  breath  of 
Rome. 

Not  a  leaf  quivers,  where  the  dark, 

With  eyes  of  rayless  shadow  and  moonlit 
hair, 

Dreams  in  the  black 

And  hollow  cavernous  depth  of  the  ilex- 
trees. 

No  sound, 

Save  the  hush'd  breath  of  Rome, 

And  sweet  and  fresh  and  clear 

The  bubbling,  swaying,  ever  quavering  jet 

Of  water  fill'd  with  pale  nocturnal  gleams, 

That,  in  the  broad  low  fount, 

Falleth, 

Falleth  and  riseth, 

Riseth   and   falleth,   swayeth  and  surgeth; 
ever 

A  spring  of  life  and  joy  where  ceaselessly 
189 


Sorgendo  da  Luna 

The  shadow  of  two  sovran  powers  make 
A  terror  without  fear,  a  night  that  hath  no 

dark, 

Time,  with  his  sunlit  wings, 
Death,  with  his   pinions  vast  and  duskily 

dim  : 

Time,  breathing  vanishing  life  : 
Death,  breathing  low 
From  twilights  of  Oblivion  whence    Time 

rose 

A  wild  and  wandering  star  forlornly  whirled, 
Seen  for  a  moment,  ere  for  ever  lost. 
Up  from  the  marble  fount 
The  water  leaps, 
Sways    in    the    moonshine,   springeth, 

springeth, 
Falleth  and  riseth; 
Like  sweet  faint  lapping  music, 
Soft  gurgling  notes  of  woodland  brooKs  that 

wander 
Low  laughing  where  the  hollowed  stones  are 

green 
With  slippery  moss  that  hath  a  trickling 

sound  : 

Leapeth  and  springeth, 
Singing  forever 
A  wayward  song. 
While  the  vast  wings  of  Time  and   Death 

drift  slowly, 

190 


Sorgendo  da  Luna 

While,  faint  and  far,  the  tides  of  life 

Sigh  in  a  long  scarce  audible  breath  from 

Rome, 
Or  faintlier  still  withdraw  down  shores  of 

dusk; 

For  ever  singing 
It  leapeth  and  falleth  : 
Falleth  and  leapeth, 
Falleth, 
And  falleth. 


IN  JULY 

(South  of  Rome) 

» 

Pale-rose  the  dust  lying  thick  upon    the 

road : 

Grey-green  the  thirsty  grasses  by  the  way. 
The  long  flat   silvery   sheen   of  the    vast 

champaign 

Shimmers  beneath  the  blazing  tide  of  noon. 
The  blood-red  poppies  flame 
Like  furnace-breaths  : 
Like  wan  vague  dreams  the  misty  lavender 
Drifts  greyly  through  the  quivering   maze, 

or  seems 

Thus  through  the  visionary  glow  to  drift. 
On  the  far  slope,  beyond  the  ruin'd  arch, 
A  grey-white  cloudlet  rests, 
The  cluster'd  sheep  alow :    close,   moveless 

all, 
And  silent,  save  when  faintly  from   their 

midst 

A  slumberous  tinkle  comes, 
Cometh,  and  goeth. 

192 


In  July 

Low-stretch'd  in  the  blue  shade; 

Beneath  the  ruin 

The  shepherd  sleeps. 

Nought  stirs. 

The  wind  moves  not,  nor  with  the  faintest 

breath 
Toucheth   the    half-fallen    blooms    oi  the 

asphodels. 

Here  only,  where  the  pale  pink  ash 
Of  the  long  road  doth  slowly  flush  to  rose, 
A  bronze-wing 'd  beetle  moveth  low, 
And  sends  one  tiny  puff  of  smoke-like  dust 
Faint  through  the  golden  glimmer  of  the 

heat. 


193 


A  DREAM  AT  ARDEA 

(Maremma) 

Where  Ardea,  the  cliff -girt, 
Looks  to  the  Sea, 
Dreaming  forever 
In  her  desert  place 
Of  her  vanished  glory — 
There  too  in  the  tall  grass, 
Starred  with  narcissus 
And  the  flaming  poppy, 
I  dreamed  a  dream. 

Not  of  the  days  when 
The  fierce  trumpeting 
Of  the  Asian  elephants 
Made  the  wild  horses 
Snort  in  new  terror, 
Snort  and  wheel  wildly; 
Till  o'er  the  Campagna 
They  passed  like  a  trail 
Of  vanishing  smoke. 
No,  nor  when 
194 


A  Dream  at  Ardett 

The  brazen  clarions 

Of  the  Roman  legion 

Summoned  the  hill-folk 

To  the  Punic  War  : 

Nor  yet  when  the  shadow 

Of  the  falling  star 

Of  the  House  of  Tarquin 

Swept  unseen  o'er  the  banquet; 

And  none,  foreseeing, 

Drew  forth  the  pure  sword 

For  the  foul  heart  of  Sextus. 

Nor  yet  of  the  ancient  days 

When  the  fierce  Rutuli 

Laughed  at  the  boasting  of 

The  seven-hilled  city, 

And  when  on  rude  altars 

White  victims  lay, 

To  appease  the  anger 

Of  barbarian  Gods — 

Nay,  not  of  these,  not  even  the  far-off, 

The   ancient   time,    when    the   mother   of 

Perseus, 
Danae    the    beautiful,    came    hither     and 

builded 

Close  to  the  sea  the  hill-town  which  standeth 
Now  amid  leagues  of  the  inland  grasses, 
White   with   the   surf   of   the   blossoming 

asphodels — 
Nay,  but  only 

195 


A  Dream  at  Ardea 

Of  the  shrine  of  her, 

Venus,  the  Beautiful  One, 

The  Well-Beloved. 

Lost,  it  lieth 

Deep  'mid  the  tangle, 

Deep  'neath  the  roots  of  the  flowers  and  the 
grasses 

Drawn  like  a  veil  o'er 

The  face  of  Maremma. 

Only  the  brown  lark 

Singing  above  it, 

Only  the  grey  hare 

Beneath  the  wild  olive; 

Only  the  linnet  aflit  in  the  myrtle, 

Only  the  spotted  snake 

Writhing  swiftly 

O'er  the  thyme  and  the  spikenard, 

Only  the  falcon 

Dusking  a  moment  the  gold  of  the  yellow 
broom, 

Only  the  things  of  the  air  and  the  desert, 

Know  where  deep  in  the  maze  of  the  under- 
growth 

Lieth  the  shrine  of  the  sacred  Goddess, 

The  shrine  of  Venus. 

Up  through  the  dark  blue  mist  of  the  hare- 
bells- 
All  the  wild  glory,  with  trailing  convolvulusj 

Lenten  lilies  asway  in  the  sunlight; 
196 


A  Dream  at  Ardea 

Wine-dark     anemones,    pasque-flowers     of 

ruby, 

Iris  and  daffodil  and  sweet-smelling  violet, 
And   high   over   all   the   white   and   gold 

shining 
Where  the  wind  raced  o'er  the  asphodel 

meadows  : 

All  the  flower-glory  of  Spring  in  Maremma. 
But  here,  just  here,  a  mist  of  the  harebells — 
Up  through  the  dark  blue  mist  of  the  hare- 
bells 

Rose  like  a  white  smoke  hovering  gently 
Over  the  windless  woodlands  of  Ostia 
Where   the    charcoal-burners   wander    like 

shadows, 
Rose  a  white  vapour,  stealthily,  slowly. 

Ah,  but  the  wonder!    the  wan  ghost    of 

Venus 

Rose  slowly  before  me  : 
Dark,  deep,  and  awful  the  eyes  of  the  vision, 
Sad   beyond   words  that   wraith   of    dead 

beauty, 

Chill  now  and  solemn 
Austere  as  the  grave, 
The  face  that  had  blanched 
The  high  gods  of  old, 
The  face  that  had  led 
The  heroes  of  men 

197 


A  Dream  at  Ardea 

From  the  heights  of  Caucasus 

To  the  uttermost  ends 

Of  Earth,  as  leadeth  nightly 

The  Moon,  her  cohorts 

Of  perishing  billows. 

"  I  am  she  whom  thou  lovest  :  " 

"  Nay,  whom  I  worship,  Goddess  and  Queen  !  " 

"  I  am  she  whom  thou  worshippest  :  " 

"  For  thou  art  Beauty,  and  Beauty  I  worship, 

And  thou  art  Love,  and  Love — " 

"  Love    is    Beauty.     They   love    not    nor 

worship, 
They   who    dissever    the    one    from    the 

other." 

"  Hearken,  0  Goddess  !  " 
"  Nay,  shadow  of  shadows,  why  callest  me 

Goddess  ! 
Far   from    thy   world   '  the    Goddess '    is 

banished. 
Ye  have  chosen  the  dark  :    the  dark    be 

with  you  ! 
Ye  have   chosen   sorrow :    and  sorrow    is 

yours  : 

O  fools  that  worship  vain  Gods,  and  know  not 
That  life  is  the  breath  but  of  perishing  dust — 
They  only  live  in  whose  hearts  there  hath 

fallen 

The  breath  of  my  passion — " 
"  0  Goddess,  fade  not !  " 
108 


A  Dream  at  Ardea 

"  I  pass,  and  behold, 
With  my  passing  goeth 
The  joy  of  the  world  !  " 

Darkly  austefe 

The  face  of  the  Goddess. 

Then  like  a  flame 

That  groweth  wan 

And  flickereth  forth  from  the  reach  of  vision, 

The  face  of  Venus 

Was  seen  no  more, 

Though  through  the  mist 

Her  eyes  gleamed  darkly, 

Great  fires  of  joy — 

Of  joy  disherited, 

But  glorious  ever 

In  their  lordly  scorn, 

Their  high  disdain. 

Not  till  the  purple-hue d 
Wings  of  the  twilight 
Waved  softly  downward 
From  the  Alban  hills, 
And  moved  stilly 

Over  the  vast  dim  leagues  of  Maremma, 
Turned  I  backward 
My  wandering  steps. 
Far  o'er  the  white-glimmering 
Breast  of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea 
(Laid  as  in  sleep  at  the  feet  of  the  hills) 
199 


A  Dream  at  Ardea 

Rose,  dropping  liquid  fires 

Into  the  wine-dark  vault  of  the  heaven, 

The  Star  of  Evening, 

Venus,  the  Evening  Star  :  f 

Eternal,  serene, 

In  deathless  beauty 

Revolving  ever 

Through  the  stellar  spheres  ! 

High  o'er  the  shadowy  heights 
Of  the  Volscian  summits 
The  full  moon  soared  : 
Soared  slowly  upward 
Like  a  golden  nenuphar 
In  a  vaster  Nilus 
Than  that  which  floweth 
Through  the  heart  of  Egypt. 
The  moon  that  maketh 
The  world  so  beautiful, 
That  moveth  so  tenderly 
Over  desolate  things, 
The  moon  that  giveth 
The  amber  light, 
Wherein  best  blossom 
The  mystic  flowers 
Of  human  love. 

Through  the  darkness 
Whelming  the  waste, 
And,  like  a  stealthy  tide 
200 


A  Dream  at  Ardea 

Rising  around 

Ardea,  the  cliff -girt, 

Wavered  the  sound  of  joyous  laughter. 

Sweet  words  and  sweeter 

Fell  where  the  lentisc 

Bloomed,  and  the  rosemary  : 

Loving  caresses 

Lost  in  a  rustle 

Where  the  hawthorn-bushes 

Loomed  large  in  the  twilight 

Of  the  fireflies'  lanterns. 

Deep  in  the  heart  of 
A  myrtle-thicket 
A  nightingale  stirred : 
With  low  sweet  note, 
Thrilling  strangely, 
And  as  though  moving 
With  the  breath  of  its  passion 
The  midmost  leaves. 
But  once  her  plaint  : — 
Then  wild  and  glad, 
In  a  free  ecstasy, 
In  utter  bliss, 

In  one  high  whirl  of  rapture,  sang 
His  answering  song 
Her  mate,  low  swaying  upon  a  bough, 
With  throat  full-strained,  and  quivering  wings 
Beating  with  tremulous  whirr. 
201 


A  Dream  at  Ardea 

Then  I  was  glad, 

For  surely  I  knew 

I  had  dreamed  a  dream  'neath  the  spell  of 

Maremma. 

Not  sunk  in  the  drift 
Of  antique  dust, 
Lost  from  the  ken  of  Earth 
Within  her  shrine, 
Venus,  the  Beautiful, 
The  Queen  of  Love  ! 
But  though  no  longer 
Beheld  of  man, 
Still  living  and  breathing 
Through  the  heart  of  the  world — • 
Whether  in  the  song, 
Passionate,  beautiful, 
Of  the  nightingale  ; 
Or  in  the  glad  rapture 
Of  lovers  meeting, 
With  soft  caresses 
Hid  in  the  dusk  ; 

In  the  fair  flower  of  the  vast  field  of  heaven  ; 
Or  in  the  glow, 
The  pulsing  splendour, 
Of  the  white  star  of  joy, 
The  Star  of  Eve. 


303 


DE  PROFUNDIS 

Whence  hast  thou  gone, 
O  vision  beloved  ? 
There  is  silence  now 
In  thy  groves,  and  never 
A  voice  proclaimeth 
Thy  glory  come, 
Thy  joy  rearisen  ! 

O  passion  of  beauty, 
Forsake  not  thus 
Those  who  have  worshipped  thee, 
Body  and  soul ! 
Come  to  us,  come  to  us, 
Inviolate,  Beautiful, 
Thou  whose  breath 
Is  as  Spring  o'er  the  world, 
Whose  smile  is  the  flowering 
Of  the  wide  green  Earth  ! 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  thee, 
Like  a  moonbeam  moving 
Through  the  heart  of  a  hilMake 
Moveth  Compassion  : 
203 


De  Profundis 

O  Beloved, 
Be  with  us  ever, 
Thou,  the  Beautiful, 
Passion  of  Beauty, 
Alma  Victrix  1 


204 


ULTIMO  SOSPIRO 

O  dolce  primavera  pien'  di  olezzo  e  amor  I 
Che  f ai  tu  .  .  .  che  f ai  fra  tanti  fior  ? 

Colgo  le  rose  amabili  del  pift  soavi  odori ; 
Colgo  Is  rose  affabili  e  i  lunghi  gelsomini, 
Nei  olenti  miei  giardini  io  vi  tengo  al  cor. 

Roman  Folksong. 

Joy  of  the  world, 

O  flower-crown 'd  Spring, 

With  thine  odorous  breath  and  thy  heart  of 
love, 

Breathe  through  this  verse  thy  sweet   mes- 
sage of  longing. 

Lo,  in  the  gardens  of  Alma,  whose  lovers 

Die  gladly  in  worship,  but  fail  not  ever; 

Oft  have  I  strayed, 

Oft  have  I  lingered 

When  high  through  the  noon  the  lost  lark 
has  been  singing, 

Or  when  in  the  moonlight 

Soft  through  the  silence  has  whispered  the 
ocean, 

Or  when,  in  the  dark 

205 


Ultimo  Sospiro 

Of  the  ilex-woods, 

Where  the  fireflies  wavered 

Frail  wandering  stars, 

Not  a  sound  has  been  heard 

But  Scirocco  rustling 

The  midmost  leaves 

Of  the  trees  where  he  sleepeth. 

Roses  of  love, 

White  lilies  of  dream, 

Frail  blooms  that  have  blossom'd 

Into  life  with  thy  breathing  : 

Blow  them,  O  wind, 

West  wind  of  the  Spring, 

Lift  them  and  take  them  where    gardens 

await  them, 
Lift  them  and  take  them  to  those    who 

hearken, 
Facing  the  dawn,  for  the  sounds  of    the 

morning, 
With  wide  eyes  glad  with  the    beautiful 

vision, 

O  whispers  of  joy, 
O  breaths  of  passion, 
O  sighs  of  longing. 


206 


EPILOGUE 
IL  Bosco  SACRO 

Ah,  the  sweet  silence  : 
Not  a  breath  stirreth  : 
Scarce  a  leaf  moveth. 

The  Dusk,  as  a  dream, 
Steals  slowly,  slowly, 
With  shadowy  feet 
Under  the  branches 
Here,  in  the  woodland, 
Hushfully  seeking 
The  Night,  her  lover. 

Sweet  are  the  odours 
Breath'd  through  the  twilight; 
Lovely  spirits 
Of  lovely  things. 
One  by  one 

Forth-shimmer  white  stars 
Beyond  the  skiey 
Boughs  of  chestnuts, 
207 


Epilogu 

Pale  Phosphorescence 
Gleaming  and  glancing 
As  in  the  wake 
Of  a  windspent  vessel 
That,  moonlike,  drifts 
With  motionless  motion. 

Peace  :  utter  peace. 

Not  a  sound  riseth 

From  where  in  the  hollow 

The  town  lies  dreaming  : 

Not  a  cry  from  the  pastures 

That  far  below 

Are  drowsed  in  the  shadows. 

Only  afar, 

On  the  dim  Campagna; 

Peace,  utter  peace  : 

On  the  pastures,  peace 

Low  in  the  hollows, 

Deep  in  the  woodlands; 

High  on  the  hill-slopes; 

Rest,  utter  rest, 

Utter  peace. 

Suddenly  .  :  -.  thrilling 
Long-drawn  vibrations ! 
Passionate  preludes 
Of  passionate  song 
O  the  wild  music 
208 


Epilogue 

Tost  through  the  silence; 

As  a  swaying  fountain 

Is  swept  by  the  wind's  wings 

Far  through  the  sunshine, 

A  mist  of  flashing 

And  falling  spray. 

How  the  hush  of  the  stillness 

Deepeneth  slowly.  .  .  . 

Till  never,  never 

Can  pain  and  rapture 

So  wild  a  music, 

So  sweet  a  song, 

List  in  the  moonlight — 

Listen  again 

O  never,  never ! 

O  heart  still  thy  beating  : 
O  bird,  thy  song  ! 
Too  deep  the  rapture 
Of  this  new  sorrow. 
White  falls  the  moonshine 
Here,  where  we  gather'd 
The  snow-pure  blossoms, 
The  Flowers  of  Dream  : 
Here,  when  the  sunlight 
On  that  glad  day 
Flooded  the  mosses 
With  golden  wine, 
And  deep  in  the  forest, 
209 


Epilogue 

Joy  passed  us,  laughing, 
Laughing  low, 
While  ever  behind  her 
Rose  lovely,  delicate, 
Beautiful,  beautiful, 
The  fadeless  blossoms, 
The  Flowers  of  Dream. 
Be  still,  O  beating, 
O  yearning  heart ! 
Here  there  is  silence  .  .  . 
Silence  .  .  .  Silence  .  .  . 
O  beating  heart ! 

Here,  in  the  sunshine, 
Together  we  gather'd 
The  perfect  blooms  : 
And  now  in  the  gloaming, 
Here,  where  the  moonlight; 
Lies  like  white  foam  on 
The  dark  tides  of  night, 
Here  is  one  only, 
Longing  forever, 
Longing,  longing 
With  passion  and  pain. 

Come,  O  Beloved ! 
O  heart,  be  still ! 
Nay,  through  the  silence 
Cometh  no  answer, 
210 


Epilogue 

But  only,  only 
The  sweet  subsiding 
Of  this  wild  strain 
Now  lost  in  the  thickets 
Down  in  the  hollows. 

Hark  .  .  .  rapture  out  welling  ! 

O  song  of  joy  ! 

Glad  voice  of  my  passion 

Singing  there 

Out  of  the  heart  of 

The  fragrant  darkness  ! 

O  flowers  at  my  feet, 

White  beautiful  flowers, 

That  whisper,  whisper 

My  soul's  desire  ! 

O  never,  never 

Lost  though  afar, 

My  Joy,  my  Dream 

Too  deep  the  rapture 
Of  this  sweet  sorrow, 
Of  this  glad  pain  : 
O  heart,  still  thy  beating, 
O  bird,  thy  song  ! 


211 


POEMS 

1889-1893 


OCEANUS 

I 

While   still  the  dusk  impends  above    the 

glimmering  waste 
A  tremor  comes  :   wave  after  wave  turns 

silvery  bright  : 
A  sudden  yellow  gleam  athwart  the  east  is 

traced  : 

The  waning  stars  fade  forth,  swift  perish- 
ing pyres. 
The  moon  lies  pearly-wan  upon  the  front 

of  Night. 
Then  all  at  once  upwells  a  flood  of  golden 

light 
And  a  myriad  waves  flash  forth  a  myriad 

fires  : 
Now  is  the  hour  the  amplest  glory  of  life  to 

taste, 

Outswimming  towards  the  sun  upon    the 
billowy  waste. 

II 

The    pure    green    waves !    with    crests    of 

dazzling  foam  ashine, 
Onward  they  roll :  innumerably    grand, 
they  beat 

215 


Oceanus 

A    wild    and    jubilant    triumph-music     all 

divine  ! 
The  sea-fowl,  their  white  kindred  of  the 

spray-swept  air, 

Scream    joyous    echoes    as    with     wave- 
dipped  pinions  fleet 
They  whirl  before  the  blast   or    vanish 

'mid  blown  sleet. 
In  loud-resounding,  strenuous,  conquering 

play  they  fare, 
Like  clouds,  high  over  head,  forgotten  lands 

i'  the  brine — 

Great   combing  deep-sea  waves  with  sunlit 
foam  ashine. 

Ill 

On  the  wide  wastes  she  lives  her  lawless, 

passionate  life  : 
Enslaved  of  none,  the  imperious  mighty 

Sea  ! 

How  glorious  the  music  of  her  waves  at  strife 
With  all  the  winds  of  heaven  that,  fiercely 

wooing,  blow ! 
On  high  she  ever  chants  her  psalm    of 

Victory  ; 
Afar  her  turbulent  paean  tells  that  she  is 

free  ; 

The   tireless   albatross   with   wings   like 
foam  or  snow 

216 


Oceanus 

Flies  leagues  on  leagues  for  days,  and   yet 

the  world  seems  rife 
With  nought  save  windy  waves  and  the  Sea's 

wild  free  life  ! 

IV 

How  oft  the  strange,  wild,  haunting  glamour 

of  the  Sea, 
The   strange,    compelling   magic   of    her 

thrilling  Voice, 
Have  won  me,  when,  'mid  lonely  places,  wild 

and  free 
As  any  wand'ring  wind,   I  have    heard 

along  the  shore 
The  wondrous  ever-varying  Sea-song  loud 

rejoice. 

I  have  seen  a  snowy  petrel,  arising,  poise 
Above  the  green-sloped  wave,  then  pass 

for  evermore 
From  keenest  sight,  and  I  have  thought  that 

I  might  be 

Thus  also  deathward  lured  by  glamour  of  the 
Sea. 


Hark   to   the   long    resilient   surge   o'   the 

ebbing  tide  ; 

With  shingly  rush  and  roar  it  foams  adown 
the  strand  : 

217 


Oceanus 

The  great  Sea  heaves  her  restless  bosom  far 

and  wide — 
Heedless  she  seems  of  winds  and  all  the 

forceful  laws 
That    bar  her  empire  over  the  usurping 

Land  : 
Enough,    she    dreams,    is    her    imperial 

command 
To    make  the  very  torrents,    waveward 

falling,  pause  : 
She  scorns  the  Bridegroom-Land,  yet  is.  a 

subject  Bride 

For  she  must  come  and  go  with  each   re- 
current tide. 

•     VI 

On  moonless  nights,  when  winds  are  still, 

her  stealthy  waves 
Creep  towards  the  listening  land  ;    with 

voices  soft  and  low 
They  whisper  strange  sea-secrets  'mid  the 

hollow  caves  : 
A  wondrous  song  it  is  that  rises  then  and 

falls! 

Deep-buried  memories  of  the  ancient  long- 
ago, 
Confused  strange  echoes  of  some  vanished 

old  world  woe, 
Weird  prophecies  reverberant  round  those 

wave-worn  walls  : 
218 


Oceanus 

When  loud  the  wrathful  billows  roar  and  the 

Sea  runes 
Her  deepest  mourning  broods  beneath  the 

foaming  waves. 

VII 

As  some  aerial  spirit  weaves  a  rainbow-veil 
Of  mist,  his  high  immortal  loveliness  to 

hide ; 

So  too  thy  palpitant  waters,  duskily  pale, 
Oft-times  take  on  a  sudden  splendour  wild. 
Then  thy  sea-horses  rise,  fierce  prancing 

side  by  side, 

And — like  the  host  of  the  dead-arisen — ride 
Ghastly  afar  to  bournes  where  all  the  dead 

lie  piled  !  .  .  . 

Superb,  fantastic,  crown 'd  with  flying  splen- 
dours frail, 

Thou,  when  in  dreams,  thou  weav'st  thy 
phosphorescent  veil ! 

VIII 

Vast,  vast,  immeasurably  vast,  thy  dreadful 

peace 
When  heaving  with  slow,  mighty  breath 

thou  liest 

In  utter  rest,  and  dost  thy  ministering  winds 
release 

219 


Oceanus 

So  that  with  folded  wings  they  too  subside, 
Floating  through  hollow  spaces,  though 

the  highest 
Stirs  his  long  tremulous  pinions  when  thou 

sighest  ! 
Then  in  thy  soul,  that  doth  in  fathomless 

depths  abide, 

All  wild  desires  and  turbulent  longings  cease — 
Profound,  immeasurable  then,  thy  dreadful 

peace  ! 

IX 

But  in  thy  noon  of  night,  serene  as  death, 

when  under 

The  terrible  silence  of  that  arched  dome 
Not  a  lost  whisper  ev'n  of  thy  wandering 

thunder 
Ascends  like  the  spiral  smoke  of  perishing 

flame, 
Nor  dying  wave  on  thy  swart  bosora  sinks 

in  foam — 

Then,  then  the  world  is  thine,  thy  heri- 
tage, thy  home  ! 
What  then  for  thee,  O  Sea,  thou  Terror  ! 

or  what  name 
To  call  thee  by,  thou  Sphinx,  thou  Mystery, 

thou  Wonder — 

Above   thou   art    Living   Death,    Oblivion 
under ! 

220 


A  PARIS  NOCTURNE 

Over  the  lonesome  hollows 
And  secret  haunts  of  the  river, 
Past  fields  and  homestead  and  village, 
Past  the  grey  wharves  and  the  piers 
The  darkness  moves  like  a  veil, 
Save  when  obscure,  vast,  nigrescent 
Flakes  from  the  travelling  gloom 
Slant  westward  great  fans  of  blackness. 

Then  a  mist  of  radiance, 
Lamps  with  red  lights  and  yellow, 
Foam-white,  and  blue  as  an  ice-floe, 
Lamps  intermingling  with  gas-light, 
Leagues  of  wind-wavered  gas-light, 
Lamps  on  the  masts  of  barges, 
Lamps  upon  sloops  and  on  steamers, 
Lamps  below  quays  and  dark  bridges, 
Yellow  and  red  and  green, 
Like  a  myriad  growths  phosphorescent 
When  a  swamp,  erewhile  flooded  with 
waters, 

221 


A  Paris  Nocturne 

Lies  low  to  the  stare  of  the  moon 

And  the  stealthy  white  breath  of  the  wind. 

And,  over  all,  one  light 

Palpitant,  circular,  wide, 

Sweeping  the  city  vast — 

Yonder,  beyond  where  in  shadow 

The  thronged  Champs- Ely  sees  are  filling 

With  echoes  of  human  voices, 

With  shadows  of  human  lives; 

With  phantoms  of  vampyre-vices — 

Beyond  where  the  serpentine  river 

Curves  in  a  coil  gigantic, 

And  straight,  a  thin  shaft,  through  the 

vagueness 

Soars  the  high  lighthouse  of  Paris, 
Soars  o'er  the  sea  of  the  city 
With  all  its  shoals  and  its  terrors, 
Its  perilous  straits  and  its  breakers, 
High  o'er  the  brightness  and  splendour 
Of  shores  where  the  sirens  sing  ever. 

Then,  shadows  enmassed  once  again  : 

And  the  river  moving  slowly, 

And  the  hills  making  darkness  deeper. 

The  lamps  now  fewer  and  fewer — 

Fewer  the  red  lights  and  yellow, 

Till  only  a  dusky  barge 

Moves  like  a  water-snake 

222 


A  Paris  Nocturne 

On  the  face  of  a  dark  lagoon, 
A  stealthy  fire  'mid  the  stillness  ; 
While  from  a  weir  in  the  distance 
Comes  a  sound  like  the  cry  of  waters 
When  the  tides  and  the  sea-winds  gather 
And  the  sands  of  the  dunes  are  scattered 
In  the  scud  of  the  spray. 


223 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast 

forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong 

would  triumph : 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

(Died  at  the  Palazzo  Rezzonico,  Venice,  December  12, 
1889.) 

So,  it  is  well :  what  need  is  there  to  mourn  ? 
What  of  the  darkness  was  there,  of  the 

dread, 
Of  all  the  pity  of  old  age  forlorn 

When   the    swift    mind    and    hand    are 

though  as  dead  ?  '  , 

Nothing  :  the  change  was  his  that  comes  to 

days 

When,  after  long,  rich,  restful  afternoons, 
A  sudden  flush  of  glory  fills  the  skies  : 
Thereafter  is  the  peace  of  dream-fraught 

moons, 
And  then,  oh  !  then  for  sure,  in  the  eastern 

ways 

At  morn,  once  more  Life's  golden  floods 
arise. 

224 


Robert  Browning 

Ay,  it  is  well :  what  better  fate  were  his  ? 
Why  wish  for  him  the  twilight -greyness 

drear  ? 

He  hath  not  known  the  bitter  thing  it  is 
To  halt,  and  doubt,  grope  blindly,  tremble, 

fear  : 
The   reverend   snows   above   his   forehead 

brought 
No  ominous  hints  of  that  which  might  not 

be, 

No  chill  suggestion  of  the  ephemeral  soul : 
Unto  the  very  end  'twas  his  to  see 
Failure  no  drear  climacte^'.c,  but  wrought 
To  nobler  issues;  ?  victorious  goal. 

There,  where  the  long  lagoons  by  day  and 

night 
Feel  the  swift  journeying  tides,  in  ebb  and 

flow, 
Move  inward  from  the  deep  with  sound  and 

light 

And  splendour  of  the  seas,  or  outward  go 
Resurgent  from  the  city  that  doth  rest 
Upon  the  flood  even  as  a  sw  n  asleep; 
Or  as  a  lily  'mid  encircling  streams, 
Or  as  a  flower  a  dusky  maid  doth  keep, 
An  orient  maid,  upon  her  love-warm  breast, 
Thrilled  with  its  inspiration  through  he 

dreams — 
I  225  p 


Robert  Browning 

There;  in  the  city  that  he  loved  so  well, 
And  with  the  sea-sound  in  his  ears,  the 

sound 
Of  healing  waters  in  their  miracle 

Of  changeless  and  regenerative  round, 
The    strange   and   solemn    silence  that   is 

death 

Came  o'er  him.     'Mid  the  loved  ones  near 
The  deep  suspense  of  the  last  torturing 

hope 
Hung  like  a  wounded  bird,  ere  swift  and 

sheer 

It  fall  with  the  last  frail  exhausted  breath 
And  feeble  fluttering  wings  that  cannot 
ope. 

There  death  was  his  :    within  his    golden 

prime, 

Painless,    serene,     unvanquished,    undis- 
mayed, 

He  fronted  the  dark  lapse  of  mortal  time 
With  eyes  alit,  through  all  the  gathering 

shade, 
With  the  strange  light  that  clothes  immortal 

things — 
Beauty,  and  Truth,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Joy 

and  Peace, 

The  garnished  harvest  of  our  human 
years, 

226 


Robert  Browning 

Fair  dreams  and  hopes  that  triumphed  o'er 

surcease, 
The  immaculate  sweetness   of  all  bygone 

Springs, 
The  rainbow-glory  of  transfigured  tears. 

Over  him  went  the  Powers,  the  Dreams,  the 

Graces, 

The  invisible  Dominations  that  we  know 
Despite  the  mystic  veil   that    hides   their 

faces,  .* 

The  immortal  faces  that  divinely  glow  : 
Fair  Hope  was  there  to  take  him  by  the 

hand ; 

White  Aspirations  smiled  about  his  bed  ; 
Desires  and  Dreams  moved  gently  by 

his  side  ; 
Beauty  stooped  low,  and  shone  upon  the 

dead ; 
Joy  spake  not;  for,  from  out  the  Deathless 

land, 

She  led  God's  loveliest  gift,  his  long-lost 
Bride. 

Oh,  what  a  trivial  mockery  then  was  this, 
The   change   we   so   involve   with   alien 

terror : 

How  lorn  in  light  of  that  supernal  bliss 
The  ruinous  wrecking  folly  of  our  error ! 
227 


Robert  Browning 

Sweet  beyond  words  the  meeting  that  was 

there, 
Sweet  beyond  words  the  deep-set  yearning 

gaze, 
Sweet,  sweet  the  voice  that  long  had 

silent  been  ! 

Ah,  how  his  soul,  beleagured  by  no  maze, 
No  glooms  of  Death,  i'  that  Paradisal  air 
Knew  all  was  well,  since  She  was  there, 
his  Queen. 

They   are   not   gone,   those    Dreams,   Fair 

Hopes,  and  Graces, 
Those    Powers    and     Dominations     and 

Desires, 
They   are  not   passed,  though  veiled  the 

immortal  faces, 
Though  dimmed   meanwhile  their  eyes' 

wild  starry  fires. 
Meanwhile,  it  may  be,  on  wan  wings   and 

slender 

Invisible  to  mortal  gaze,  they  gleam 
In  solemn,  sad,  processional  array 
There  where  the  sunshafts  through  stained 

windows  stream, 
And    flood    the    gloomful     majesty     with 

splendour, 

And  charm  the  aisles  from  out  their 
brooding  grey. 

228 


Robert  Browning 

They  are  not  gone  :    nor  shall  they  ever 

vanish, 

Those  precious  ministers  of  him,  our  Poet  : 
What  madness  would  it  be  for  one  to  banish, 

To  barter  his  inheritance,  forego  it, 
For  some  phantasmal  gift,  some  transient 

boon  ! 

Thus  would  it  be  with  us  were  we  to  turn 
Indifferently    aside,    when    they    draw 

nigh; 

To  look  with  callous  gaze,  nor  once  discern 
How  swift  they  come  and  go,  how  all  too 

soon 
They  evade  for  ever  the  unheeding  eye. 

X 

They  are  not  gone  :    for  wheresoe'er  there 

liveth 
One  hope  his  song  inspired — whom  they 

inspired — 
Yea,  wheresoever  in  one  heart  there  breatheth 

An  aspiration  by  his  ardouf  fired : 
Where'er  through  him  are  souls  made  serfs 

to  Beauty, 
Where'er  through   him   hearts  stir  with 

lofty  aim, 
Where'er  through  him  men  thrill   with 

high  endeavour, 

There  shall  these  ministers  breathe  iow  his 
name, 

229 


Robert  Browning 

Linked  to  ideals  of  Love  and  Truth    and 

Duty, 

And  all  high  things  of  mind  and  soul, 
for  ever. 

No  carven  stone,  no  monumental  fane, 

Can  equal  this  :  that  he  hath  builded  deep 
A  cenotaph  beyond  the  assoiling  reign 
Of  Her  whose  eyes  are  dusk  with  Night 

and  Sleep, 

Queenly  Oblivion  :  no  Pyramid, 
No  vast,  gigantic  Tomb,  no  Sepulchre 
Made  awful  with  imag'ries  of  doom; 
Evade  her  hand  who  one  day  shall  inter 
Man's  proudest  monuments,  as  she  hath  hid 
The  immemorial  past  within  her  womb. 

For  he  hath  built  his  lasting  monument 

Within  the  hearts  and  in  the  minds  of  men  : 
The  Powers  of  Life  around  its  base  have  bent 
The  Stream  of  Memory;  our  furthest  ken 
Beholds  no  reach,  no  limit  to  its  rise  ; 
It  hath  foundations  sure  ;    it  shall    not 

pass  ; 

The  ruin  of  Time  upon  it  none  shall  see, 
Till  the  last  wind  shall  wither  the    last 

grass, 
Nay,  while  man's  Hopes,  Fears,  Dreams,  and 

Agonies 

Uplift  his  soul  to  Immortality. 
230 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  CENTAUR 

THE  MAN 

Upon  the  mountain-heights  thou  goest; 

As  swift  as  some  fierce  wind-swept  flame  ; 
Thy  doom  thou  scornest  while  thou  knowest 

Men  mock  thy  name. 

But  thou — thou  hast  the  mountain-splen- 
dour, 

The  lonely  streams,  blue  lakes  serene, 
Wouldst  thou  these  virgin  haunts  surrender 

For  man's  demesne  ? 

Wouldst  thou,  for  peaks  where  eagles  gather, 
Where  moon-white  skies  slow  flush  with 

dawn, 

Where,  drenched  with  dew  thy  chieftain- 
father 
Is  far  withdrawn — 

Wouldst  thou  all  these  exchange,  give  over 
Thy  wild  free  joys  and  all  delights, 

Thy  proud  and  passionate  mountain-lover, 
Thy  starry  nights, 

231 


The  Man  and  the  Centaur 

For  that  drear  life  in  huddled  places 
Where  men  like  ants  move  to  and  fro 

Tired  men,  with  ever  on  their  faces 
The  shadow  of  woe  ? 

THE  CENTAUR 

I  would  not  change — did  not  the  waters 
Did  not  the  winds,  all  living  things 

Proclaim  that  we,  the  sons  and  daughters 
Of  Time's  first  kings, 

That  we  must  change  and  pass  and  perish 
Even  as  autumnal  leaves  that  fall ; 

Even  as  the  wind  the  hill-flowers  cherish, 
At  Winter's  call : 

That  we,  even  we,  should  know  no  morrow, 

For  as  our  body,  so  our  soul : 
O  human,  fair  thy  life  of  sorrow, 

Thou  hast  a  Goal  1 


232 


DIONYSOS  IN  INDIA 

(Opening  Fragment  of  a  Lyrical  Drama] 

Opening  Scene : 

Verge  of  an  upland  glade  among  the  Hima- 
layas. 

Time :  Sunrise 

FIRST  FAUN 

c  .  .  Hark  !    I  hear 
Aerial  voices — 

SECOND  FAUN 
Whist ! 

FIRST  FAUN 

It  is  the  wind 
Leaping  against  the  sunrise,  on  the  heights. 

SECOND  FAUN 
No,  no,  yon  mountain-springs — 

FIRST  FAUN 

Hark,  hark,  oh,  hark  ! — 
233 


Dionysos  in  India 

SECOND  FAUN 
Are  budding  into  foam-flowers :    see,   they 

fall 
Laughing  before  the  dawn — 

FIRST  FAUN 

Oh,  the  sweet  music  ! 

CHILD-FAUN 
(Timidly  peeping  over  a  cistus,  uncurling 

into  blooms.) 

Dear  brother,  say,  oh  say,  what  fills  the  air  ? 
The  leaves  whisper,  yet  is  not  any  wind  : 
I  am  afraid. 

FIRST  FAUN 

Be  not  afraid,  dear  child  : 
There  is  no  gloom. 

CHILD-FAUN 

But  silence  :  and — and — then, 
The  birds  have  suddenly  ceased  :   and  see; 

alow 
The  gossamer  quivers  where  my    startled 

hare — 

Slipt  from  my  leash — cow'rs  'mid  the  fox- 
glove-bells, 

His  eyes  like  pansies  in  a  lonely  wood  ! 
Oh,  I  am  afraid — afraid — though  glad  : — 
234 


Diohysos  in  India 

SECOND  FAUN 

Why  glad  ? 
CHILD-FAUN 
I  know  not, 

FIRST  FAUN 
Never  yet  an  evil  god 
Forsook  the  dusk.     Lo !    all  our  vales  are 

filled 
With  light  :   the  darkest  shimmers  in  pale 

blue  : 
Nought  is  forlorn  :  no  evil  thing  goeth  by. 

SECOND  FAUN 
They  say — 

FIRST  FAUN 
What  ?  who  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 

They  of  the  hills  :  they  say 
That  a  lost  god — 

FIRST  FAUN 

Hush,  hush  :  beware  ! 

SECOND  FAUN 

And  why  ? 

There  is  no  god  in  the  blue  empty  air  ? 
Where  else  ? 

235 


Dionysos  in  India 

FIRST.  FAUN 

There  is  a  lifting  up  of  joy  : 
The  morning  moves  in  ecstasy.     Never  ! 
Oh,  never  fairer  morning  dawned  than  this. 
Somewhat  is  nigh ! 

SECOND  FAUN 

Maybe  :  and  yet  I  hear 
Nought,  save  day's  familiar  sounds,  nought 

see 
But  the  sweet  concourse  of  familiar  things. 

FIRST  FAUN 
Speak  on,  though  never  a  single  leaf   but 

hears, 

And,  like  the  hollow  shells  o'  the  twisted  nuts 
That  fall  in  autumn,  aye  murmuringly  holds 
The  breath  of  bygone  sound.  We  know  not 

when — 
To   whom — these    little   wavering   tongues 

betray 
Our  heedless  words,  wild  wanderers  though 

we  be. 
What  say  the  mountain-lords  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 

That  a  lost  god 

Fares  hither  through  the  dark,  ever  the  dark. 
236 


Dionysos  in  India 

FIRST  FAUN 
What  dark  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 

Not  the  blank  hollows  of  the  night  : 
Blind  is  he  though  a  god  :  forgotten  graves 
The  cavernous  depths  of  his  oblivious  eyes. 
His  face  is  as  the  desert,  blanched  with  ruins. 
His  voice  none  ever  heard,  though  whispers 

say 

That  in  the  dead  of  icy  winters  far 
Beyond  the  utmost  peaks  we  ever  clomb 
It  hath  gone  forth — a  deep,  an  awful  woe. 

FIRST  FAUN 
What  seeks  he  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 
No  one  knoweth. 

FIRST  FAUN 

Yet  a  god, 
And  blind  ! 

SECOND  FAUN 

Ay  so  :  and  I  have  heard  beside 
That  he  is  not  as  other  gods  ;  but  from  vast 

age- 
So  vast,  that  in  his  youth  those  hills  were  wet 
With  the  tossed  spume  of  each  returning  tide — 
237 


Dionysos  in  India 

He  hath  lost  knowledge  of  the  things  that 

are, 

All  memory  of  what  was,  in  that  dim  Past 
Which  was  old  time  for  him  ;  and  knoweth 

nought, 

Nought  feels,  but  inextinguishable  pain. 
Titanic  woe  and  burden  of  long  aeons 
Of  unrequited  quest. 

FIRST  FAUN 

But  if  he  be 

Of  the  Immortal  Brotherhood,  though  blind, 
How  lost  to  them  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 

I  know  not,  I.     Tis  said — 
Lython  the  Centaur  told  me  in  those  days 
When  he  had  pity  on  me  in  his  cave 
Far  up  among  the  hills — that  the  lost  god 
Is  curs'd  of  all  his  kin,  and  that  his  curse 
Lies  like  a  cloud  about  their  golden  home  : 
So  evermore  he  goeth  to  and  fro — 
The  shadow  of  their  glory  .  .  . 

Ay,  he  knows 

The  lost  beginnings  of  the  things  that  are  : 
We  are  but  morning-dreams  to   him,  and 

Man 

But  a  fantastic  shadow  of  the  dawn  : 
The  very  Gods  seem  children  to  his  age; 
238 


Dionysos  in  India 

Who  reigned  before  their  birth-throes  filled 

the  sky 
With  the  myriad  shattered  lights  that  are  the 

stars. 

FIRST  FAUN 
Where  reigned  this  ancient  God  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 

Old  Lython  said 

His  kingdom  was  the  Void,  where  evermore 
Silence  sits  throned  upon  Oblivion. 

FIRST  FAUN 
What  wants  he  here  ? 

SECOND  FAUN 

He  hateth  Helios; 
And  dogs  his  steps.     None  knoweth  more. 

FIRST  FAUN 

Aha! 

I  heed  no  dotard  god  !     Behold,  behold, 
My  ears  betrayed  me  not  :  Oh,  hearken  now  ! 

CHILD-FAUN 

Bother,  O  brother,  all  the  birds  are  wild 
With  song,  and  through  the  sun-splashed 

wood  there  goes 

Arsound  as  of  a  multitude  of  wings. 
239 


Dionysos  in  India 

SECOND  FAUN 

The  sun,  the  sun  !   the  flowers  in  the  grass  ! 
Oh,  the  white  glory  ! 

FIRST  FAUN 

Tis  the  Virgin  God  ! 
Hark,  hear  the  hymns  that  thrill  the  winds 

of  morn, 
Wild    paeans    to    the    light !     The    white 

processionals  ! 
They  come  !    They  come  !  .  .  . 


240 


BALLAD  OF  THE  SONG  OF  THE 
SEA-WIND 

What  is  the  song  the  sea-wind  sings — 
The  old,  old  song  it  singeth  for  aye  ? 

When  abroad  it  stretches  its  mighty  wings 
And  driveth  the  white  clouds  far  away, — 
What  is  the  song  it  sings  to-day  ? 

From  fire  and  tumult  the  white  world  came, 
When  all  was  a  mist  of  driven  spray 

And  the  whirling  fragments  of  a  frame  ! 

What  is  the  song  the  sea-wind  sings — 
The  old,  old  song  it  singeth  for  aye  ? 

It  seems  to  breathe  a  thousand  things 
Ere  the  world  grew  sad  and  old  and  grey — 
Of  the  dear  gods  banished  far  astray — 

Of  strange  wild  rumours  of  joy  and  shame  ! 
The  Earth  is  old,  so  old,  To-day — 

Blind  and  halt  and  weary  and  lame. 

What  is  the  song  the  sea-wind  sings — 
The  old,  old  song  it  singeth  for  aye  ? 

Like  a  trumpet  blast  its  voice  put -rings; 
The  world  spins  down  the  darksome  way  I 
It  crieth  aloud  in  wild  dismay, 
I  241  Q 


Ballad  of  the  Song  of  the  Sea-Wind 

The  Earth  that  from  fire  and  tumult  came 
Draws  swift  to  her  weary  end  To-day, 
Her  fires  are  fusing  for  that  last  Flame  I 

ENVOY 
What  singeth  the  sea-wind  thus  for  aye, 

From  fire  and  tumult  the  white  world  came  ! 
What  is  the  sea-wind's  cry  To-day — 

Her  central  fires  make  one  vast  flame  ! 


242 


SONNETS 

1893 


SONNET-SEQUENCE 


Where  have  I  known  thee,  dear,  in    what 

strange  place, 

Midst  what  caprices  of  our  alien  fate; 
Where  have  I  bowed,  worshipping  this  thy 

face, 

And  hunger'd  for  thee,  as  now,  insatiate  ? 
Tell   me,   white   soul,  that   through    those 

starry  veils 
Keep'st  steadfast   vigil  o'er  my    wavering 

spirit, 
On  what  far  sea  trimm'd  we  our   darkling 

sails 
When  fell  the  shadow  o'er  that  we  now 

inherit  ? 

Two  tempest-driven  souls  were  we,  or  glad 
With  the  young  joy  that  recks  of  no  to- 
morrow : 

Or  were  we  as  now  inexplicably  sad 
Before  the  coming  twilight  of  new  Sorrow  ? 
Did  our  flesh  quail  as  now  this  poor  flesh 

quails. 
Our  faces   blanch;  as  minei  as  thine  that 

pales ! 

245 


Sonnet-Sequence 


II 

Out  of  the  valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death 
Who  cometh,  through  the  haunted  Hollow 

Land? 
On  those  tired  lips  of  mine  whose  quickening 

breath; 
In  this  long  yearning  clasp  whose  tremulous 

hand  ? 

O,  is  it  death  or  dream,  madness,  or  what 
Fantastic  torture  of  the  chemic  brain, 
That  brings  thee  here;  as  thus,  when    all 

forgot, 
Thy  body  sleeps,  as  mine  doth,  free   from 

pain  ? 

What  is  the  brooding  word  upon  thy  lips 
O  beautiful  image  of  my  heart's  desire  ? 
What  is  the  ominous  shadow  of  eclipse 
That   dusks  those  veiled  eyes'  redeeming 

fire? 

O  soul  whom  I  from  life  to  life  have  sought, 
What  menace  haunteth  joy  so  dearly  bought  ? 


246 


Sonnet-Sequence 


III 

This  menace  :— of  remembrance  that   must 

come  : 

This  menace  : — of  the  waking  that  must  be. 
O  soul,  let  the  rhythm  of  life  itself   grow 

dumb 

And  be  the  song  of  death  our  litany  : 
Let  the  world  perish  as  a  perishing  fire; 
For  us  be  less  than  ashes  without  flame; 
So  that   we  twain   our  last   breath  here 

suspire, 
Here  where  none  uttereth  word,  none  calletb 

name. 

For  in  the  Hollow  Land  is  utter  peace, 
The  magic  spell  which  hath  no  first  or  last, 
But  all  that  never  ceaseth  here  doth  cease 
And  what  would  know  no  death  is  long 

since  past : 

Only  one  thing  endures  where  all  expire — 
The  inviolate  rapture  of  fulfilled  desire. 


247 


Sonnet-Sequence 


IV 

Where  art  thou,  Love  !     Lo,  I  am  crucified 
Here  on  the  bitter  tree  of  my  suspense, 
And  my  soul  travails  in  my  quivering  side 
Wild  with  the   passionate   longing  to  go 

hence. 
Where   would  it  voyage,   lost,   bewildered 

soul 
If  from  the  body's  warm  white  home  it 

strayed : 

Even  as  the  wild-fox  would  it  find  its  hole, 
Even  as  the  fowls  of  the  air  would  it  find 

shade  ? 
Yea,    dear,    with    winnowing   wings   there 

would  it  fly 

To  fold  them  on  the  whiteness  of  thy  breast; 
And  all  its  passion  breathe  into  thy  sigh, 
Fulfil  the  uttermost  peace  of  perfect  rest  : 
And  passing  into  thee  as  its  last  goal 
Should   know   rx>   more   this   bitter-sweet 

control. 


248 


Sonnet  -Sequence 


Dear,  through  the  silence  comes  a   vibrant 

call, 

Thy  voice,  thy  very  voice  it  is,  O  Sweet ! 
Yet  who  shall  scale  the  dread  invisible  wall 
That   guards  the   Eden   where   our    souls 

would  meet  ? 

O  veil  of  flesh,  O  dull  mortality, 
Is  there  no  vision  for  the  enfranchised  eyes  : 
Must   we  stoop    low  thro'  Death's  green- 
glooms  to  see 
The  immaculate  li^ht  known  of  our  winged 

sighs  ? 
Nay,  Love,  of  body  or  soul  no  shadow  or 

gloom 

Can  always;  always,  thee  and  me  dispart ; 
Soul  of  my  soul,  thro'  the  very  gates  of 

Doom 
Even   as   deep   to   deep,   heart    crieth    to 

heart — 
Yea,  as  two  moving  waves  on  Life's   wild 

sea, 
We  meet,  we  merge,  we  are  one,  I   thou; 

thou  me ! 


249 


Sonnet-Sequence 


VI 

"  And  dost  thou  love  me  not  a  whit   the 

less  : 

And  is  thy  heart  as  tremulous  as  of  yore; 
And  do  thine  eyes  mirror  the    wonderful- 
ness; 

And  do  thy  lips  retain  their  magic  lore  ?  " 
What,  Sweet,  can  these  things  be,  ev'n   in 

thy  thought, 

And  I  so  briefly  gone,  so  swiftly  come  ? 
Nay,  if  the  pulse  of  life  its  beat  forgot 
This  speaking  heart  would  not  thereby   be 

dumb. 

I  love  thee,  love  thee  so,  O  beautiful  Hell 
That   dost   consume   heart,   brain,   nerves; 

body,  soul 
That  even  my  immortal  birthright   I  would 

sell 
Were  Heaven  to  choose,  or  Thee;  as  my  one 

goal. 
Sweet  love  fulfilled,  they  say,  the  common 

lot! 
He  who  speaks  thus;  of  real  love  knoweth 

not. 


250 


Sonnet-Sequence 


VII 

The  dull  day  darkens  to  its  close.     The 

sheen 

Of  a  myriad  gas-jets  lights  the  squalid  night. 
There  .is  no  joy,  it  seems,  but  what  hath 

been  : 
There   is   nought    left    but    semblance    of 

delight. 
Nay,  is  it  so  ?    Down  this  long    darkling 

way 

What  surety  is  there  for  the  hungry  heart, 
What  vistas  of  white  peace,  rapt  holiday 
Of  the  tired  soul  forlorn,  thus  kept  apart  ? 
Oh,    hearken,    hearken,    love !    I    cannot 

wait  : 

Drear  is  the  night  without,  the  night  within  : 
I  am  so  tired,  so  tired,  so  baffled  of   our 

fate; 

The  very  sport  it  seems  of  our  sweet  sin  : 
Oh,  open,  open  now,  and  bid  me  stay, 
Who  almost  am  too  tired;  too  weak,    to 

pray. 


Sonnet-Sequence 


VIII 

And  so,  is  it  so  ?    the  long  sweet  pain  is 

over  ? 

The  dear  familiar  love  must  know  a  change  ? 
No  more  am  I,  no  more,  to  be  your  lover, 
But  life  be  cold  once  more,  and  drear,  and 

strange. 
We  have  sinned,  you  say,  and  sorrow  must 

redeem 

All  the  cruel  largess  of  our  passionate  love, 
And  we,  at  the  last,    content  us  with  a 

dream 
Who  have  known  a  hell  below,  a  heaven 

above  ! 

Well,  be  it  so  :  thy  life  I  shall  not  darken  : 
Thy  dream,  for  me,  shall  be  disturbed   no 

more  : 
Thine  ears,  by  day  or  night,  shall  never 

hearken 
The  coming  of  the  steps  thou  lovedst  of 

yore  : 

And  if,  afar,  a  lost  wild  soul  blaspheme, 
Thou  shalt  not  know  it  in  thy  peace  supreme. 


252 


AN  UNTOLD  STORY 

I 

When  the  dark  falls,  and  as  a  single  star 
The  orient  planets  blend  in  one  bright  ray 
A-quiver through  the  violet  shadows  far 
Where  the  rose-red  still  lingers  'mid  the 
grey: 

And  when  the  moon,  half-cirque  around  her 

hollow, 
Casts  on  the  upland  pastures  shimmer  of 

green  : 
And  the  marsh-meteors  the  frail  lightnings 

follow, 
And  wave  lapse  into  wave  with  amber 

sheen — 

O  then  my  heart  is  full  of  thee,  who  never 
From  out  thy  beautiful  mysterious  eyes 
Givest  one  glance  at  this  my  wild  endeavour, 
Who  hast  no  heed,  no  heed,  of  all  my  sighs  : 
Is  it  so  well  with  thee  in  thy  high  place 
That  thou  canst  mock  me  thus  even  to  my 
face  ? 

253 


An  Untold  Story 


II 

Dull  ash-grey  frost  upon  the  black-grey  fields: 
Thick  wreaths  of  tortured  smoke  above  the 

town : 

The  chill  impervious  fog  no  foothold  yields, 
But   onward  draws  its  shroud  of  yellow 

brown. 

No  star  can  pierce  the  gloom,  no    moon 

dispart : 

And  I  am  lonely  here,  and  scarcely  know 
What  mockery  is  "  death  from  a    broken 

heart," 
What  tragic  pity  in  the  one  word  :  Woe. 

But  I  am  free  of  thee,  at  least,  yea  free  ! 

No  more  thy  bondager  'twixt  heaven  and 
hell! 

No    more   there    numbs,    no   more    there 
shroudeth  me 

The  paralysing  horror  of  thy  spell : 

No  more  win'st  thou  this  last  frail    wor- 
shipping breath, 

For  twice  dead  he  who  dies  this    second 
death. 

254 


THE  VEILS  OF  SILENCE 

Three  veils  of  Silence,  Summer  draws 
apace. 

The  noon-tide  Peace  that  broods  on  hill  and 
dale, 

That  passes  o'er  the  sea  and  leaves  no  trace, 

That  sleeps  in  the  moveless  clouds'  move- 
less trail : 

The  wave  of  colour  deepening  day  by  day; 
The  yellow  grown  to  purple  on  the  leas, 
Blue  within  there  beyond  the  dusky  ways  ; 
A  green-gloom  dusk  within  the  grass-green 
trees. 

The  third  veil  no  man  sees.    She  weaves  it 

where 
Beneath  the  fret   and  fume  tired    hearts 

aspire 

And  long  for  some  divine  impossible  air. 
Out  of  Man's  heart  she  weaves  this  veil  of 

Rest- 
Sweet  anodyne  for  all  the  feverish  quest 
And  ache  of  inarticulate  Desire. 
255 


WRITTEN  BY  THE  SEA 

Sweet  are  white  dreams  i'  the  dusk,    yet 

sweeter  far 
When  the  sea-music  fills  those    haunting 

dreams  : 

When  light  survives  alone  in  each  white  star 
And  in  the  far  white  shine  of  a  myriad 

gleams  : 
When  from  white  flowers,  that  through  the 

violet  gloom 
Shine     faintly      phosphorescent,      strange 

breaths  steal 

And  in  the  lamp-lit  silence  of  the  room 
The   longing,   yearning   soul   makes    mute 

appeal : 
When  nought  is  heard,  and  yet  the  tired 

hands  stray 
To  meet  white  dream-like  hands  soft  floating 

by: 

When  the  disanchor'd  mind  sails  far  away 
'Mid  the  suspense  of  an  imagined  sigh — 
'Tis  thee,  'tis  thee,  O  dear  white  soul,  'tis 

thee; 
White  Joy,  white  Peace,   white  Balm  that 

healeth  me ! 

256 


THE  MENACE  OF  AUTUMN 

Amber  and  yellow  and  russet,  gold  and  red, 
The  autumnal  leaves  dream  they  are  summer 

flowers  : 

Day  after  day  the  windless  sunny  hours 
With  feet  of  flame  pass  softly  overhead  : 

Day  after  day  over  each  perishing  leaf 
The  windless  hours  pass  with   slow-fading 

flame  : 
No  song  is  heard  where  floods  of    music 

came  ; 
Long  garner'd  on  the  fields  the  final  sheaf. 

One  day  a  wild  and  ravishing  wind  will  rise; 
One  day  a  paralysing  frost  will  come, 
And  all  this  glory  be  taken  unaware  : 
Dark  branches  then  will  lean   against  the 

skies, 
Sear  leaves  will  drift  the  forest -path  ways 

dumb, 
And  wold   and  woodland  lie;  austere  and 

bare. 


257 


The  herald  redbreast  sings  his  winter  lays, 
The   fieldfares   drift   in   flocks  adown  the 

weald : 

The  turbulent  rooks  gather  on  every  field, 
And  clamorous  starlings  dare  our  garden- 
ways  : 

O  beautiful  garden-ways,  not    grown  less 

dear 

Because  the  rose  has  gone,  and  briony  waves 
Where  lily  and  purple  iris  have  their  graves, 
Or  that,  where  violets  were,  the  asters  rear. 

Lo,  what  a  sheen  of  colour  lingers  still; 
Though  the  autumnal  rains  and  frost  be 

come  : 
The   tall  dishevelled  sunflowers;  stooping, 

spill 
Lost    rays   of   sunshine   o'er  the   tangled 

mould; 
While  everywhere,  touched  with  a. glory  of 

gold, 
Flaunts  the  imperial  chrysanthemum. 


258 


FLORA  IN  JANUARY 

The  goddess  slept.    About  her  where  she  lay 
Dead  pansies,  fragrant  still,  and  the  myriad 

rose : 
Adream  'mid  the  fallen  drift,  she  woke  one 

day, 
And  the  blooms  stirred,  seeing  her    eyes 

unclose. 

The  oaks  and  beeches  stood  in  disarray, 
Gaunt,  spectral,  dark,  in  dismal  phantom 

rows ; 
She  smiled,  and  there  was  a  shimmer  'mid 

the  grey 
And  sudden  fall  of  the  first  winter-snows. 

But  when;  tired  with  the  icy  blossoms  of  the 

air, 
She  slept  once  more,  and  all  the  snow  was 

over, 
She  dreamed  of  Spring  and  saw  his  sunlit 

hair, 
And  heard  the   whisper  of  her    laughing 

lover  : 
But  while  she  dreamed,  the  dead    blooms 

had  grown  fair 

And  Christmas-roses  made  a  veil  above  her. 
»59 


POEMS 
1893-1905 


FROM  OVERSEA 

From  oversea — 

Violets  for  memories, 
I  send  to  thee ; 

Let  them  bear  thoughts  of  me, 
With  pleasant  memories 

To  touch  the  heart  of  thee, 
Far  oversea. 

A  little  way  it  is  for  love  to  flee, 

Love  wing'd  with  memories, 
Hither  to  thither  oversea. 


SONG 

Love  in  my  heart  :   oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 

Love  is  my  tyrant,  Love  is  supreme. 
What  if  he  passeth,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 
Love  is  a  phantom,  and  Life  is  a  dream  ! 

What  if  he  changeth,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 
of  me  ! 

Oh,  can  the  waters  be  void  of  the  wind  ? 
What  if  he  wendeth  afar  and  apart  from  me, 

What  if  he  leave  me  to  perish  behind  ? 

What  if  he  passeth,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me ! 

A  flame  i'  the  dusk,  a  breath  of  Desire  ? 
Nay,  my  sweet  Love  is  the  heart  and  the 

soul  of  me 

And  I  am  the    innermost   heart  of  his 
fire! 

Love  in  my  heart :   oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 

Love  is  my  tyrant,  Love  is  supreme. 
What  if  he  passeth,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 

Love  is  a  phantom,  and  Life  is  a  dream  ! 
264 


THE  SUN  LORD 

Low  laughing,  blithely  scorning — 
Beware,  beware,  of  flaming  wings, 
Love  hunts  thee  down  the  morning  ! 

His  white  feet  dip  i'  the  hillside  springs, 
He  mocks  thy  flying  terror  ! 
The  woodland  with  his  laughter  rings  ! 

He'll  make  thee  his  slave  to  follow, 
Nor  shall  he  forgive  thee,  maid,  thine  error, 
Who  spied  thee  hid  in  the  hollow. 

Too  late,  too  late  the  warning  ! 
Behold  the  flash  of  flaming  wings — 
Love  hath  thee  now  i'  the  morning  ! 


265 


THE  SUMMER  WOMAN 

O  wild  bee  humming  in  the  gorse; 

O  wild  dove  croodling  in  the  woods, 
Know  ye  not  she  is  false  as  fair, 

A  sweet  Caprice  with  bitter  moods  ? 

For  bitter-sweet  her  wild  kiss  is, 
And  bitter-sweet  her  haunting  voice  : 

How  oft  my  eyes  have  filled  with  tears 
When  she  hath  bid  me  to  rejoice  ! 

0  loved  Caprice,  is  thine  the  fault 
Or  is  the  bitterness  all  mine  ! 

Art  thou  the  quenchless  Thirst  of  Joy 
And  I  the  lees  of  thy  spilt  wine  ? 

Oh,  greenness,  greenness  everywhere, 
Oh,  whisper  of  green  leaves,  green  grass, 

Surely  the  glory  is  not  gone, 
Surely  the  glory  shall  not  pass  ? 

1  long  for  some  lost  magic  thing, 

A  voice;  a  gleam,  a  joy,  a  pain  : 
Wild  doves,  your  old-time  strain  once  more, 
Wild  bees,  wild  bees,  come  back  again  ! 

266 


SYCAMORES  IN  BLOOM 

Like  flame-wing'd  harps  the  seed  blooms  lie 

Amid  the  shadowy  sycamores. 
The  music  of  each  leaflet's  sigh 
Thrills  them  continually, 

The  small  harps  of  the  sycamores. 

Small  birds  innumerable  find  rest 
And  shelter  'midst  the  sycamores. 

Their  songs  (of  love  in  a  warm  soft  nest) 

Are  faintly  echoed  east  and  west 
By  the  red  harps  o'  the  sycamores* 

The  dewfall  and  the  starshine  make 
Amidst  the  shadowy  sycamores 

Sweet   delicate   strains ;    the   gold   beams 
shake 

The  leaves  at  morn,  and  swift  awake 
The  small  harps  of  the  sycamores. 

O  sweet  Earth's  music  everywhere, 
Though  faint  as  in  the  sycamores  : 

Sweet  when  buds  burst,  birds  pair  ; 

Sweet  when  as  thus  there  wave  in  the  air 
The  red  harps  of  the  sycamores. 

267 


SPRING'S  ADVENT 

The  Spirit  of  Spring  is  in  the  air  ; 

The  daffodils  wave  blithe  and  free 

To  the  wind's  minstrelsy, 

And  everywhere 
A  green  rebirth  involves  each  branchlet  bare. 

Already  from  the  elm -tree  boughs 
The  jubilant  thrush  doth  cry  aloud  ; 
From  fallow  fields  new  ploughed 

The  plovers  rouse ; 

In    hollow   boles    no    more    the    squirrels 
drowse. 

The  blackbird  calls  his  thrilling  note  ; 
And  by  each  field,  and  copse,  and  glade 
The  leverets  race,  the  rabbits  raid  ; 
Where  gorse-blooms  float 

The  yellow-yite  pipes  o'er  and  o'er  by  rote. 

In  the  blue  arch  of  sky,  cloud-swept, 
The  unseen  larks  are  singing  ; 
The  green  grass  is  springing  : 

While  nature  slept, 

Leaf-crown'd,    bird-haunted    Spring    hath 
hither  leapt. 

268 


Spring's  Advent 

0  joy  of  winds;  and  birds;  and  flowersj 
Of  growing  grass,  of  budding  leaves; 
Of  green  and  sappy  sheaves, 

Of  rustling  showers, 

Sunshine,    and    plenitude    of     marvellous 
hours. 

Thrilled  Earth  beholds  her  golden  prime 
Returned  again ;  her  heart  beats  swift. 
Low-laughing,  as  the  spring  winds  lift 

Their  songs  sublime, 

Mocking,  she  dares  the  circling  Shadow  of 
Time. 


269 


THE  SUMMER  WIND 

The  bugling  of  the  summer  wind 

Is  sweet  upon  the  hill : 
I  love  to  hear  its  eddies 

The  heather-crannies  fill. 

It  plays  upon  the  bracken 

A  blithe  fanfarronade  : 
And  thro'  the  moss-cups  whistleth 

"  The  Fairy  Raid." 

It  leaps  from  birch  to  rowan, 
And  laugheth  long  and  loud, 

Then  with  a  spring  is  vanished, 
And  rideth  on  a  cloud  1 


270 


THE  HILL  WATER 

There  is  a  little  brook; 

I  love  it  well : 

It  hath  so  sweet  a  sound 

That  even  in  dreams  my  ears  could  tell 

Its  music  anywhere. 

Often  I  wander  there, 

And  leave  my  book 

Unread  upon  the  ground, 

Eager  to  quell 

In  the  hush'd  air 

That  haunts  its  flowing  forehead  fair 

All  that  about  my  heart  hath  wound 

A  trouble  of  care  : 

Or,  it  may  be,  idly  to  spell 

Its  runic  music  rare 

And  with  its  singing  soul  to  share 

Its  ancient  lore  profound  : 

For  sweet  it  is  to  be  the  echoing  shell 

That  lists  and  inly  keeps  that  murmurous 

miracle. 

About  it  all  day  long 
In  this  June-tide 

271 


The  Hill  Water 

There  is  a  myriad  song* 

From  every  side 

There  comes  a  breath;  a  hum,  a  voice  : 

The  hill-wind  fans  it  with  a  pleasant  noise 

As  of  sweet  rustling  things 

That  move  on  unseen  wings; 

And  from  the  pinewood  near 

A  floating  whisper  oftentimes  I  hear, 

As  when,  o'er  pastoral  meadows  wide, 

Stealeth  the  drowsy  music  of  a  weir. 

The  green  reeds  bend  above  it, 

The    soft    green   grasses    stoop    and   trail 

therein : 

The  minnows  dart  and  spin  : 
The  purple-gleaming  swallows  love  it : 
And,  hush,  its  innermost  depth  within, 
The  vague  prophetic  murmur  of  the  linn. 

But  not  in  summer-tide  alone 
I  love  to  look 

Upon  this  rippling  water  in  my  glen  : 
Most  sweet,  most  dear,  my  brook, 
And  most  my  own, 

When  the  grey  mists  shroud  every  ben; 
And  in  its  quiet  place 
The  stream  doth  bare  her  face; 
And  lets  me  pore  deep  down  into  her  eyes, 
Her  eyes  of  shadowy  grey, 
Wherein  from  day  to  day 
272 


The  Hill  Water 

My  soul  is  startled  with  a  new  surmise, 
Or  doth  some  subtler  meaning  trace 
Reflected  from  unseen  invisible  skies. 

Dear  mountain-solitary,  dear  lonely  brook, 
Of   hillside   rains   and   dews    the    vagrant 

daughter, 
Sweet,  sweet,  thy  music  when  I  bend  above 

thee, 

When  in  thy  fugitive  face  I  look  ; 
Yet  not  the  less  I  love  thee, 
When,  far  away,  and  absent  from  thee  long, 
I  yearn,  my  dark  hill-water, 
I  yearn,  I  strain  to  hear  thy  song, 
Brown,  wandering  water, 
Dear,  murmuring  water  1 


273 


RAINBOW-SHIMMER 

To-day  upon  the  hillside 

I  saw  a  golden  fairy  ; 
Her  name  is  Rainbow-Shimmer, 

But  for  you  and  me  she's  Mary. 

For  Mary  is  the  mother 

Of  all  sweet  souls  that  be; 
From  the  angels  in  heaven 

To  the  best  fish  in  the  sea. 

i 
And  of  all  sweet  souls  that  are; 

Fairies  are  the  rarest, 
And  Mary  was  a  star 

Among  the  fairest. 

She  had  a  golden  kingcup 

Her  little  golden  head, 
For  dress  she  had  a  daisy  white 

Just  tipped  with  red. 

She  danced  upon  a  clover  leaf 

Still  ashine  with  dew 
And  the  blue  sky  above  was  not 

As  her  blue  eyes  so  blue. 
274 


Rainbow-Shimmer 

Her  partner  was  a  sunbeam, 
A  partner  wild  and  wary, 

Whose  reel  might  even  tire 
The  patience  of  a  fairy. 

Ah;  how  the  two  went  dancing 
Among  the  dewy  clover  ; 

I  would  that  you  were  Mary 
And  I  your  sunbeam  lover  ! 

"  Stop,  Mary,  stop,"  I  whispered; 

"  Be  not  so  wild  and  wary, 
I  know  a  little  lassie 

Who'd  dearly  love  a  fairy  !  " 

i* 

But  in  a  twink  sne  vanished, 
The  dewshine  dance  was  over  1 

Ah,  her  twinkling  laughter 
With  her  sunbeam  lover  I 

But,  hush  !    Her  hiding-place 

Is  not  so  far  apart : 
I'll  tell  you  where  it  is,  dear, 

It's  deep  in  Mother's  heart. 


275 


THE  YELLOWHAMMER'S  SONG 

Out  on  the  waste,  a  little  lonely  bird,  I  flit 

and  I  sing  ; 
My  breast  is  yellow  as  sunshine,  and  light 

as  the  wind  my  wing. 

The  golden  gorse  me  shelters,  in  the  tufted 

grass  is  my  nest, 
And  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  the  world,  though 

the  wind  blow  east  or  west. 

The  harebells  chime  their  music,  the  canna 

floats  white  in  the  breeze  : 
But  as  for  me,  I  flit  to  and  fro  and  I  sing  at 

my  ease. 

When  the  thyme  is  dripping  with  dew,  and 

the  hill-wind  beareth  along 
The  pungent  scent  of  the  gale,  loudly  I  sing 

my  morning  song. 

When  the  sun  beats  on  the  gorse,  the  broom, 

and  the  budding  heather, 
I  flit  from' spray  to  spray,  and  my 

the  golden  weather. 
276 


The  Yellowhammer's  Song 

When  the  moor-fowl  sink  to  their  rest,  and 

the  sky  is  soft  rose-red, 
I  sing  of  the  crescent  moon  and  the  single 

star  overhead. 

Out  on  the  waste,  out  on  the  waste,  I  flit 

all  day  as  I  sing, 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  is  the  world — dear  world — 

how  beautiful  everything  f 

Only  a  little  lonely  bird  that  loveth  the 

moorland  waste, 
And  little  perhaps  of  the  joy  of  the  world 

is  that  which  I  taste  ; 

f 

But  out  on  the  wild,  free  moorlands  or  the 

gold  gorse-boughs  I  swing, 
And  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  the  world  ;  oh,  sweet  I 

ah,  sweet !  the  song  that  I  sing. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEA- WIND 

King  of  the  winds,  O  Wind  of  the  Sea, 
When    thou    sweepest    abroad    thy    voice 

crieth; 

Crieth  the  anguish  of  living  souls 
As  with  the  wild  storm-rapt  soughing  of  the 

oaks. 

Breath  of  the  world,  0  bitter  breath, 
King  of  the  winds,  0  Wind  of  the  Sea  ! 

King  of  the  winds,  O  Wind  of  the  Sea, 
Hitherward  blow,   by  our  doors,  through 

our  souls. 
Blow,  blow,  Euroclydon  .  .  .  and  as  dead 

leaves 
Whirl  seaward   vain   hopes  and   perishing 

dreams. 

Breath  of  the  world,  0  bitter  breath, 
King  of  the  winds,  0  Wind  of  the  Sea  ! 

King  of  the  winds,  O  Wind  of  the  Sea; 
Uplift  us,  resurge  us  out  with  thy  waves; 
278 


The  Song  of  the  Sea-Wind 

Out  on  thine  infinite  heaving  breast 
Where  not  a  wave  breaks  but  is  higher  than 
hope. 

Breath  of  the  world,  0  bitter  breath, 
King  of  the  winds,  0  Wind  of  the  Sea  ! 

King  of  the  winds,  O  Wind  of  the  Sea, 
In  the  sweep  and  shadow  of  mighty  wings 
Whirl  far  this  Dream  that  is  life,  afar 
To  the  Shores  of  Joy  or  the  Coasts  of  Night. 

Breath  of  the  world,  0  bitter  breath, 
King  of  the  winds,  0  Wind  of  the  Sea  ! 

King  of  the  winds,  O  Wind  of  the  Sea, 
Before  thee  my  heart  bows,  for  it  may  be 

that  God- 
Yea,  that  it  is  Thee,  O  God,  who  passeth  by, 
Voicing  Thy  Word  to  our  souls  out   of 

infinite  space — 

Eternal  Breath,  0  bitter-sweet  Breath, 
Lord  of  all  winds,  0  Wind  of  the  Sea  / 


279 


SPANISH  ROSES 

Roses,  roses, 
Yellow  and  red ; 
A  rose  for  the  living, 
A  rose  for  the  dead  ! 
Who'll  sip  their  dew  ? 
There  are  only  a  few 
Of  the  yellow  and  red  : 
Youth  sells  its  roses 
Ere  youth  is  sped. 

Roses,  roses, 

All  for  delight; 

What  of  the  night  ? 

Hark,  the  tramp,  tramp, 

The  scabbard's  clamp, 

The  flaring  lamp ! 

Where  is  the  morning  dew  ? 

Ah,  only  a  few 

Drank  ere  the  yellow  and  red 

Lay  shrivelled,  shrivelled, 

Over  the  dead. 

280 


Spanish  Roses 

Roses,  roses, 

Buy,  oh  buy. 

The  years  fly; 

Tis  the  time  of  roses  t 

Here  are  posies 

For  one  and  all; 

For  lovers  that  sigh 

And  for  lovers  that  die  : 

And  for  Love's  pall 

And  burial ! 

Roses,  roses,  roses,  buy,  buy,  oh  buy  ! 
Why  delay,  why  delay,  roses  also  die. 
Pink  and  yellow,  blood-red,  snow-white, 
Roses  for  dayspring,  roses  for  night  ! 

Buy,  buy,  oh  my  roses  buy  ! 

A  kiss  for  a  kiss,  and  a  sigh  for  a  sigh  I 


281 


THE  SEA-BORN  VINE 
(A  Dionysiac  Legend) 

The  sun  leapt  up  the  rose-flushed  sky 
And  yellowed  all  the  sea's  pale  blue  ; 

The  Tyrrhene  crew 
Uprose  and  hailed  the  God  on  high* 

But  Dionysos  made  no  sign  : 
The  shipmen  hailed  their  f,ord  again; 

Acclaimed  His  reign, 
Then  stared  upon  their  guest  divine. 

"  The  deep  shall  swallow  thee;  fair  sir  : 
The    sea-things    shall    make   thee    their 

prey— 

The  God  obey 
Or  meet  swift  death  ere  thou  canst  stir  !  " 

"  Ere  ye  arose,  my  spirit  bowed 
To  the  Great  God  unrisen  then  : — 

Take  heed,  0  men, 
Your  clamour  grow  not  overload." 
282 


The  Sea-Born  Vine 

"  A  priest  of  Bacchus  thou  !    Behold  : 
On  sea-wave  here  could  whelm  thy  God — 

His  mystic  rod 

Would  float  foam-crown'd  'mid  this  wave- 
gold. 

"  Ai  Evoe  !    Thy  voice  might  fill 
The  waste  of  sea;  the  waste  of  sky, 

Yet  thou  wouldst  die, 
Thy  god  supine  on  some  green  hill !  " 

Ai  Evoe  !    The  cry  thrilled  wide  : 
The  startled  rowers  shrank — they  saw 

With  trembling  awe 
The  conscious  waters  surge  aside. 

Ai  Evoe !    The  waves  turn  green  ; 
In  tendril  masses  twist  and  twine 

A  mighty  vine 
Uprises  and  o'erhead  doth  lean  : 

Ai  Evoe  I    The  tendrils  cling 
About  the  shipmen  as  they  swim 

The  Bacchic  hymn 
The  waves  chant  and  the  wild  winds  sing. 

Evoe  I    Dionysos  cries; 

The  seamen  and  the  boat  no  more 

The  shingly  shore 

Shall  feel  'neath  known  or  alien  skies. 
283 


The  Sea-Born  Vine 

Blue  dolphins  guide  the  wave-born  vine 
To  caves  near  mystic  Ind : 

Only  the  wind 
Murmurs  for  aye  the  tale  divine. 

Ye  who  deride  the  gods,  beware  : 
They  are  with  us  evermore  ;  they  brook 

No  scornful  look ; 
Their  vengeance  fills  our  mortal  air. 

Yea,  of  the  jealous  gods,  take  heed  : 
One  day  the  earth  or  sea  shall  ope 

And  vanquish  hope — 
Ai  Evoe  be  vain  indeed  I 


284 


VENILIA 

Exspirare  rosas,  decrescere  lilia  vidi  .  .  . 

CLAUDIAN. 

Along  the  faint  shores  of  the  foamless  gulf 
I  see  pale  lilies  droop,  wan  roses  fall, 
And  Silence  stilling  the  uplifted  wave. 

And  in  the  movement  of  the  uplifted  wave, 
And  ere  the  rose  fall,  or  the  lily  breathe, 
Silence  becomes  a  lonely  voice,  like  hers, 
Venilia's,  who  when  love  was  given  wings 
And  far  off  flight,  mourned  ceaseless  as  a 

dove, 

Till  bitter  Circe  made  her  but  a  voice 
Still  lingering  as  a  fragrance  in  dim  woods 
When  on  the  gay  wind  swims  the  yellow 

leaf. 


285 


ON  A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  APRIL 

The  yellow  moon  is  a  dancing  phantom 

Down  secret  ways  of  the  flowing  shade  ; 
And  the  waveless  stream  has  a  murmuring 

whisper 
Where  the  alders  wave. 

Not  a  breath,  not  a  sigh;  save  the  slow 

stream's  whisper : 
Only  the  moon  is  a  dancing  blade 
That  leads  a  host  of  the  Crescent  warriors 
To  a  phantom  raid. 

Out  of  the  Lands  of  Faerie  a  summons, 
A  long,  strange  cry  that  thrills  through 

the  glade  : — 
The    grey-green    glooms    of   the    elm    are 

stirring, 
Newly  afraid. 

Last  heard,  white  music,  under  the  olives 

Where  once  Theocritus  sang  and  played— 
Thy  Thracian  song  is  the  old  new  wonder 
O  moon-white  maid ! 
286 


THE  DIRGE  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 
(In  Memoriam. — E.  Z.) 

In  the  great  days  men  heard  afar  the  clarions 

of  Hope  rejoice : 
The  hearts  of  men  were  shaken  as  reeds  by 

the  wind  of  a  Voice. 
But  now  the  roll  of  muffled  drums  drowns 

'mid  the  last  Retreat 
The  wild  fanfare  of  perishing  hopes,  the 

tramp  of  passing  feet. 

The  winds  of  heaven  are  banners  lost,  are 

pennons  of  dismay ; 
The  innumerous  legion  of  the  sun  toils  on 

in  disarray ; 
The  moon  that  carries  freight  of  gold  to 

ransom  forth  the  morn 
Sails  desolate  beneath  a  myriad  starry  eyes 

of  scorn. 

Wild  rhetoric,  yes  :  but  who  shall  say  what 

metaphors  of  pain 
Are  fit  for  the  funeral  dirge  of  a  Republic 

slain  ? 

287 


The  Dirge  of  the  Republic 

High  hopes,  faiths,  dreams,  great  passions; 

aspirations, 
Prove  but  the  trodden,  useless,  bitter  dust  of 

weary  nations ! 


That  which  was  great  is  fallen,  that  which 

was  high  is  low  : 
The  rising  star  has  sunk  again,  but  in  a 

blood-red  glow : 
The  hundred  thousand  souls  that  died  before 

the  golden  prime 
Did  well,  for  it  is  well  to  miss  the  Ironies  of 

Time. 


Faith;  Honour,  Love,  the  Noble  and  the 

True, 
These  lofty  words  are  pawns  of  an  ignoble 

crew : 
How  better  far  to  light  the  Torch   with 

flames  of  cheap  desire 
Than  thus  to  mock  the  eyes  of  man  with 

stolen  fire ! 


There  is  no  State  broad-based  enough  upon 

the  People's  heart 
That  some  day  may  not  hunted  be  by  the 

People's  dart : 

288 


The  Dirge  of  the  Republic 

The  rebel  nerves,  the  rebel  lusts,  the  rebel 

hounds  of  life — 
If  these  be  loosened  from   the  whip  they 

turn  to  fratricidal  strife. 


Is  this  the  end  of  all  high  dreams   above 

thrones  trampled  under  ? 
Is  this  the  tinsel  chorus  left  after  the  noble 

thunder  ? 
'Twere  better,  then,  than  thus  to  live,  thus 

forfeit  high  renown, 
To  be  true  men,  and  free,  "  beneath   the 

shadow  of  a  Crown  "  1 


289 


INTO  THE  SILENCE 

(A  Death  in  the  West  Highlands) 

Ungather'd  lie  the  peats  upon  the  moss  ; 
No  more  is  heard  the  shaggy  pony's  hoof  ; 
The  thin  smoke  curls  no  more  above  the 

roof ; 
Unused  the   brown-sailed   boat   doth  idly 

toss 

At  anchor  in  the  Kyle  ;  and  all  across 
The    strath    the    collie    scours     without 

reproof ; 
The   gather'd   sheep   stand   wonderingly 

aloof ; 

And  everywhere  there  is  a  sense  of  loss. 
"  Has  Sheumais  left  for  over  sea  ?     Nay, 

sir, 

A  se'nnight  since  a  gloom  came  over  him  ; 
He  sicken'd,  and  his  gaze  grew  vague  and 

dim ; 

Three  days  ago  we  found  he  did  not  stir. 
He  has  gone  into  the  Silence.     'Neath  yon 

fir 

He  lies,  and  waits  the  Lord  in  darkness 
grim." 

290 


THE  HILL-ROAD  TO  ARDMORE 

There's  the  hill-road  to  Ardmore,  Mary, 
Here's  the  glen-road  to  Ardstrae  : 

Your  home  is  younder,  Mary, 
And  mine  lies  this  way. 

Will  you  come  by  the  glen,  Mary, 
Or  go  the  hill-road  to  Ardmore  ?  - 

It  is  now  and  as  you  will,  Mary, 
For  I  will  ask  no  more. 

'Tis  but  a  score  years,  Mary, 
Since  I  bade  you  to  Ardstrae  ; 

And  now  you  are  not  there,  Mary 
Nor  walk  +he  hill-side  way. 

Is  it  only  a  score  years,  Mary, 
Since  we  parted  by  the  shore, 

And  I  watched  you  go,  Mary, 
By  the  hill-road  to  Ardmore  ? 


2QI 


WHITE  ROSE 

Far  in  the  inland  valleys 
The  Spring  her  secret  tells  ; 

The  roses  lift  on  the  bushes, 
The  lilies  shake  their  bells. 

To  a  lily  of  the  valley 

A  white  rose  leans  from  above  : 
"  Little  white  flower  o'  the  valley, 

Come  up  and  be  my  love." 

To  the  lily  of  the  valley 
A  speedwell  whispers,  "  No  ! 

Where  the  roses  live  are  thorns; 
Tis  safe  below." 

The  lily  clomb  to  the  rose-bush; 

A  thorn  in  her  side  : 
The  white  rose  has  wedded  a  red  rose; 

And  the  lily  died. 


292 


ECHOES  OF  JOY 

Only  a  song  of  joy 

Wind-blown  over  the  heather, 
Somewhere  two  little  hearts 

Thrill  and  throb  together. 

Ah,  far  'mid  the  nethermost  spheres 

Life  and  Death  live  together  ; 
And  deep  is  their  love,  without  tears, 
For  they  laugh  at  the  shadows  of  years- 
And  yet  there  rings  in  my  ears 

Only  a  song  of  joy 
Wind-blown  over  the  heather. 


293 


WHEN  THE  GREENNESS  IS  COME 
AGAIN 

The  west  wind  lifts  the  plumes  of  the  fir, 

The  west  wind  swings  on  the  pine  ; 
In  the  sun-and-shadow  the  cushats  stir  ; 
For  the  breath  of  Spring  is  a  wine 
That  fills  the  wood, 
That  thrills  the  blood, 
When  the  glad  March  sun  doth  shine; 

Once  more, 
When  the  glad  March  sun  doth  shine. 

When  the  strong  May  sun  is  a  song,  a  song, 

A  song  in  the  good  green  world, 
Then  the  little  green  leaves  wax  long 

And  the  little  fern-fronds  are  uncurl'd  ; 

The  banners  of  green  are  all  unfurl'd, 
And  the  wind  goes  marching  along,  along, 
The  wind  goes  marching  along 

The  good  green  world. 


?94 


IT  HAPPENED  IN  MAY 

A  maid  forsaken 

A  white  prayer  offered 
Under  the  snow  of  the  apple-blossom  : 

To  whom  was  it  proffered  ? 
By  whom  was  it  taken  ? 
Well,  I  suppose 
Nobody  knows. 

But  somehow,  the  snows 
Of  the  apple-blossom 

Were  changed  one  day. 
A  kiss  was  offered, 

A  kiss  was  taken  : 
And  lo !   when  the  maiden  looked  shyly 

away, 
Of  bloom  of  the  apple  the  boughs  were 

forsaken  ! 

But    whiter    and    sweeter    grew     orange- 
blossom  ! 

Now  this  is  quite  true,  I  say, 
And  it  happened  in  May. 

295 


NIGHTINGALE  LANE 

Down   through   the   thicket,    out    of    the 

hedges, 

A  ripple  of  music  singeth  a  tune  .  .  . 
Like  water  that  falls 
From  mossy  ledges 
With  a  soft  low  croon  : 

Soon 

It  will  cease  ! 
No,  it  falls  but  to  rise — but  to  rise — but 

to  rise  ! 

It  is  over  the  thickets,  it  leaps  in  the  trees, 
It  swims  like  a  star  in  the   purple-black 

skies ! 

Ah,  once  again, 
With  its  rapture  and  pain, 
The  nightingale  singeth  under  the  moon  ! 


296 


BLOSSOM  OF  SNOW 

"  Sing  a  song  of  blossom," 
Said  little  Marjory  Brown  : 
"  Why  won't  it  come  down; 
Here  in  the  town, 

Please  ?  " 
Said  little  Marjory  Brown* 

"  Please, 
Wind,  blow  just  a  breath,  for  me 

To  see 

The  great  white  apple-blossoms  blow 
Just  like  snow —     •*> 
Just  like  snow  in  our  garden  before  we 
Came  back  to  town," 
Said  little  Marjory  Brown* 

All  day  and  all  night 
A  wind  did  blow, 
Marjory  laughed  at  the  flying  snow 

And  its  whirling  riot  : 
But  at  dawn  she  grew  wan  and  white; 

And  was  quiet. 
And  the  doctor  said, 
With  his  hand  on  a  bowed  sobbing  head; 
"  Too  late  you  came  up  to  town 
With  little  Marjory  Brown.'! 
297 


THE  DANDELION 

A  thousand  poets  have  sung  the  Rose; 

The  daisy  white,  the  heather, 
The  green  grass  we  lie  on 

In  summer  weather  .  .  . 
Of  almost  every  flower  that  grows; 

But  never  of  the  Dandelion, 
That  the  winds  of  Spring  have  scattered 
hither  and  thither ! 

Is  there  any  more  fair  to  see 
Than  this  bright  fellow 
Who,  also,  "  takes  the  winds  of  March 

with  beauty  "  ? 

True  his  coat  in  a  vulgar  yellow, 
And  his  is  a  very  humble  duty  .  .  . 

Merely  to  be 

As  joyous  as  a  wave  on  the  sea; 
A  wave  dancing  on  the  great  sea, — 
Merely  to  be  bright,  sunshiny,  glad,  strong; 

and  free, 

As  free  as  a  beggar,  as  proud  as  a  king  ! 
298 


The  Dandelion 

And  so,  quite  as  good  as  the  Rose; 
The  daisy  white,  the  heather, 

The  green  grass  we  lie  on 
In  summer  weather, 
Is  that  flame  of  the  feet  of  Spring, 
The  Dandelion ! 


399 


THE  DREAM-WIND 

(Written  for  Music) 

When;  like  a  sleeping  child 

Or  a  bird  in  the  nest, 
The  day  is  gathered 

To  the  earth's  breast  .  .  . 
Hush  /  .  .  .  'tis  the  Dream- Wind, 
Breathing  peace, 
Breathing  rest, 
Out  of  the  Gardens  of  Sleep  in  the  West. 

Oh,  come  to  me,  wandering 

Wind  of  the  West ! 
Grey  doves  of  slumber 

Come  hither  to  rest  !  .  .  . 
Hush  /  .  .  .  now  the  wings  cease 

Below  the  dim  trees  .  .  . 
And  the  White  Rose  of  Rest 
Breathes  low  in  the  Gardens  of  Sleep  in  the 
West. 


300 


TRIAD 

From  the  Silence  of  Time,  Time's  Silence 
borrow. 

In  the  heart  of  To-day  is  the  word  of  To- 
morrow. 

The  Builders  of  Joy  are  the  Children  of 
Sorrow. 


301 


IN  MEMORIAM 

He  laughed  at  Life's  Sunset  Gates 
With  vanishing  breath  : 

Glad  soul,  who  went  with  the  Sun 
To  the  Sunrise  of  Death. 


302 


PERSEPHONEIA 

A  FRAGMENT 
1903 


PROLOGUE 

An  ancient  solitary  temple  of  Persephoneia  by 
the  sea.  A  dull  sunset,  burning  slowly 
over  Hybla.  Melkos,  an  old  blind  priest, 
attended  by  a  boy.  A  brazen  glow  rests 
on  Etna,  whence  issues  a  thin  column  of 
dusky  smoke  filled  at  times  with  a  tongue 
of  red  flame. 

MELKOS 

The  old  dull  whisper  of  the  unceasing  wave. 

[Sighing.]  The  slow  sound  of  the  unceasing 
wave. 

[Displaces  a  stone  with  his  foot. 

Out  of  these  shadowy  hollows  of  the  ocean 

Troop  the  grey  dreams  that  plague  the 
minds  of  men. 

Far  off  Hadranos  hears  :  Enkelados 

Puts  forth  his  hands  and  shapes  the  sound 
to  thought  : 

And  on  her  lonely  Mount  where  the  sunset 
burns 

Hybla  remoulds  hi  pale  invisible  flame. 

[The  boy  idly  plays  a  note  or  two. 
I  305  U 


Persephoneia 

I  am  too  old  to  fear  these  Holy  Ones. 
Hybla  Beneficent,  why  should  one  fear 
The    Twilight    Goddess,    born    where    the 

Evening  star 
Hangs   o'er   the   abyss   where   swims   the 

unrisen  moon. 

Hadranos  loves  us  not,  but  hates  us  not  : 
Though  dreadful  to  men's  ears  the  baying 

of  the  hounds 
That    night     and     day,     a    thousandfold, 

engird 

His  sacred  temple  with  a  surge  of  sound. 
Rather  the  man  I  fear,  the  Titan-slave, 
Who  hates  the  sovran  powers  who  hold  him 

thrall, 

And  hugs  a  secret  that  no  god  doth  know, 
Save  only  her,  Demeter,  when  the  frenzy 
Terribly  moves  her  calm  to  dreadful  storm — 
And  him,  Poseidon,  when  in  his  shell-strewn 

sleep 

Deep  in  the  dim  green  silences  he  moans 
Remembering  .  .  .  him  rather  do  I  fear, 
Enkelados,  the  Helot  of  the  Gods. 

[The   boy   half  raises   himself,    looks 
toward  the  ancient  temple. 

MELKOS 

Why  do  you  stir,  Neanthes  ?     Does  the  light 

From  off  Hyblaean  hill  draw  near  the  roof  ? 

306 


Persephoneia 

NEANTHES 
The    she-goat    browsing    'mid   the    yellow 

spurge 
Yonder,   where  the  lava   crouches   like   a 

lizard 
Nailed  to  a  thorn,  looked  suddenly  up  and 

whinnied, 
Her  ears  swung  like  figs  in  the  wind,  and  her 

knees 

Bent,    and    she    shrank    shivering    to    the 
ground. 

[He  sinks  again,  and  plays  a  few  notes 
on  his  reed  pipe. 

MELKOS 
That   slow  sound  of  the  unceasing  wave. 

For  ages 
These  watery  fangs  have  gnawed  and  torn 

the  shore. 

[Again  displace :  a  stone  with  his  foot. 
When  I  was  young  I  sailed  three  days  and 

nights, 
Southward  three  -days  when  the  great  God 

drowned  in  fire, 
Southward  three  nights  when  lost  amid  pale 

stars 

The  half-moon  waned,  and  never  land  I  saw, 
Nor  living  thing,  save  a    shadow    in   the 

calms 

307 


Persephoneia 

Where  overhead  a  white-winged  sea-hawk 

flew. 

And  on  the  morrow  of  the  fourth  I  heard 
The  stifled  laughters  of  a  hidden  folk, 
Hoarse  murmurings,  a  dull  tumultuous  haste, 
With  sad  sea-voices  full  of  lamentation, 
And  a  single  voice  that  knew  not  any  peace. 

NEANTHES 

[Listlessly,  without  looking  up^ 
Who  were  these  creatures  of  the  salt  south 
sea  ? 

MELKOS 
Out  of  the  depths  they  came,  I  know  not 

whence, 
Or  what.     Poseidon's  offspring,  they,  who 

made 

A  green  and  dreadful  rumour  through  the 
wave. 

NEANTHES 

[Singing. 

Fair  is  the  falling  wave,  and  fair 
The  paven  green  sea-halls, 
And  one  who  sleepeth  sound  is  sleeping  there. 

MELKOS 

And  as  in  some  old  dream  that  swims  un- 
sought 

Into  the  unwilling  mind,  I  know  once  more 
308 


Persephoneia 

The  old  fear  I  felt,  and  all  the  horror  of 

fear, 
When  out  of  the  foam  and  the  seas  and  the 

wind 

I  heard  a  voice  of  vengeance  and  of  wrath 
And  heard  Poseidon  calling  on  the  shade 
Of  that  most  sacred,  dread,  and  nameless 

god 

Who  lives  below  the  root  of  ancient  slime 
Left  by  forgotten  seas  and  the  most  deepset 

fires 

Enkelados  hath  watched,  Hadranos  seen, 
Leaning   o'er  midnight   chasms  fill'd  witl 

flame. 

Loudly  he  called,  and  billow  on  billow  leapt  ; 
Louder,  and  seas  rose,  and  fell  upon  seas  ; 
Loudlier,  till  the  shaken  watery  domes 
That  moved  as  a  falling  city  on  Etna  moves, 
Crag-slipt  to  gulfs  of  fathomless  abyss, 
I  saw  far-off  steadfast  stars  involved, 
Spun  round  like  dust  about  a  chariot  wheel. 
And  all  the  anguish  of  his  cry  was  filled 
With  one  name  only — hers,  whom  he  begat 
A  thousand  thousand  years  ago,  on  her 
The  stern  implacable  guardian  of  mankind 
Demeter-Erinnys,  on  whose  name  be  peace. 
That  name  alone  I  heard.  .  .  Persephoneia. 

[NEANTHES  again  raises  himself,  looking 
towards  the  ancient  temple. 
309 


Persephoneia 

MELKOS 

Does  the  light  fall  from  off   the   Hyblaean 
hill,  Neanthes  ? 

NEANTHES 

Three  sea-birds  dripping  from  the  foam 
Wheeled  inland,  yonder  where  the  spotted 

snake 

Has  made  her  lair  under  the  asphodels, 
And  one  by  one  withered  in  fright,  and  flung 
Heavily  downward,  and  all  three  lie  dead. 

MELKOS 

[Again  to  himself,  unheeding  the  boy. 
And   when   like   a    snowflake    blindly   up- 
whirled  and  borne 

My  frail  boat  sung  from  one  gulf  to  another, 
And  I  lay  breathless,  dead,  as  one  long  dead, 
Blind,  deaf,  dumb,  senseless,  without  hope 

or  fear, 

Who  ploughed  the  furrow  of  my  flying  keel  ? 
That  thing  I  do  not  know,  nor  how  I  escaped 
A  peril  more  dire  than  that  which  waits  for 

ships 

For  Cumae  bound  when  Zankle  sinks  behind. 
But  on  one  desolate  morrow  my  grey  lips 
Knew  rain,  and  all  my  weary  flesh  was  healed 
With  warmth  and  peace,  at  the  coming  of  a 
calm 

310 


Perseplwneia 

Leaning  from  heaven  on  the  lapping  waters, 
And  from  the  violet  hollows  heavenward 

risen. 

And  that  day,  in  the  hush  of  afternoon, 
I  heard  a  shoreward  sighing  of  the  sea 
And  in  my  nostrils  was  the  blessed  smell 
Of  grass  and  earth  and  trees  :  so  lifting  me, 
And  having  made  my  prayer  of  thankfulness 
To  him,  the  lord  Poseidon  of  the  Deep, 
I  looked  .  .  .  and  saw  a  melancholy  shore, 
A  long  low  lifeless  melancholy  shore, 
Wherefrom,    an    infinite    way,    the    world 

uprose, 

Leaning  gigantic  .  .  .  the  vast  womb  of  her, 
The  Mother  Mountain,  and,  purpling  in  the 

west, 

Hybla  I  saw,  the  Holy  Hill :  and  else, 
No  single  home  wherefrom  the  blue  smoke 

toiled. 
But  this  I  saw  with  dread,  that  ancient 

homes 
Hearthless   and   faded   stood   among  grey 

trees, 

And  a  gaunt  bridge  hung  broken  o'er  the  bed 
Of  a  great  river  where  no  water  ran, 
And    old-time    gardens    all    unwall'd,    un- 
kempt, 

Were  green  with  noisome  growth,  and  fruit- 
less, drear. 


Persephoneia 

Some  fallen  columns  lay  upon  the  sand 
Whereon  the  lizards  fled,  and  in  one  place 
I  saw  the  image  of  an  unknown  God 
Within   whose    cavernous   ruin   the  adder 

curled. 

Near  by,  erect,  unshaken,  stood  a  fane 
Even  that  by  which  this  solitary  eve 
I  stand  in  these  my  blind  and  listless  years — 
Fearing  so  little,  with  so  little  hope, 
Yet  dimly  seeing  in  the  far-off  law 
The  shaping  of  divine  perfected  things. 
Most  drear  and  solitary  it  rose  thereby, 
The  columns  held  the  vast  grey  slab  of  roof 
That  still  they  hold,  in  whose  wind-haunted 

places 

The  sea-crows  built,  with  melancholy  cries 
Lifting  black  wings  at  sundown  and  at  dawn. 
But  on  that  dayset,  from  the  midmost  rose 
A  thin  and  wavering  column  of  spiced  smoke 
Such  as  from  altars  rise,  fragrant  with  gums, 
With  wine  and  frankincense,  where  gods  are 

known  ; 

And  even  as  I  watched,  the  purple  bloom 
That  Hybla  wore,  as  a  priestess  wears  a  robe, 
So  that  the  woman  and  the  robe  are  one, 
Took  fire  :    or  rather,  far  below,  a  sea  of 

flame 

Swung  from  its  ebb,  and  with  a  mighty  sigh 
From  dim  abysms  reached  a  fiery  crest, 
312 


Persephoneia 

The  conflagration  of  whose  soundless  life 
Changed  Hybla  to  a  molten  brazen  mass. 
Therefrom  a  concentrated  stream  of  light 
Poured  near  the  desolate  fane  ;  but  as  the 

God 

Sank  sighing  to  the  underworld  his  hand 
Lingered  a  brief  while  here  :  and  the  pale 

smoke 
Spired  suddenly  like  the  crimson  breath  of 

roses. 

[The  boy  again  raises  himself,  looking 

towards  the  ancient  temple. 
Does  the  light  fall  from  off  the    Hyblaean 

hill,  Neanthes  ? 

NEANTHES 

A  little  breath  of  smoke 
Rose  from    the   broken  terrace  near    the 

fane, 
No   more   than   from   the   white   ox    idly 

breathes 

When  with  wet  lips  he  tastes  the  morning 
grass. 

MELKOS 
And  then  ? 

NEANTHES 

A  sudden  noisy  whirl  of  sparrows 
Scattered  like  leaves  around  the  seaward 
columns  : 

313 


Persephoneia 

And  even   as   I   looked,    like  leaves  they 

fluttered, 
Falling  and  fallen,  and  now  strewn  deep  they 

lie. 

MELKOS 

[Turning  his  face  seaward  again. 
And  even  as  the  curling  breath  of  roses 
Wavered  again  to  pale  aerial  smoke, 
Even  in  that  moment  I  beheld  a  woman 
Standing  in  silence  on  the  ruin'd  terrace 
That  downward  reaches  to  the  lifting  wave 
Oozy  with  slimy  frondage  of  the  sea. 
So  tall  she  was,  so  noble  of  mien,  so  great 
In  the  perfected  beauty  of  repose, 
That  for  a  moment  all  my  thoughts  beheld 
A  flawless  statue  simulating  life. 
Most  pale,  most  terrible  her  awful  face. 
The  dark  hair  lay  adown  it  in  great  clusters,. 
Like  to  the  wild  vine  on  the  ashy. cliff 
That  on  ^Etnean  Inessa  bears  the  grape 
Wherefrom  the  grey  priests  of  Demeter  brew 
A  fatal  juice.     The  sadness  of  the  hills 
Crowned  the  sheer  lonely  height  that  was 

her  forehead. 

The  immemorial  whisper  of  the  sea 
Inhabited  the  silence  of  her  face  : 
And  in  the  flamelit  darkness  of  her  eyes 
The  melancholy  of  forgotten  things 
Was  like  a  rainy  dusk  in  the  inlands  drear. 
314 


Persephoneia 

In  stillness  she  stood  there,  immovable, 
As  Twilight  stands  in  the  passes  of  the  hills 
When  the  Noon  lifts  her  blazing  wing  and 

sheers 
.Behind   the    incurring,    blank,    precipitous 

walls. 
Then  well  I  knew  a  goddess  I  beheld. 

A  VOICE 
O  bitter  and  terrible  love  of  the  wave  for 

the  wind, 

Of  the  north  for  the  flame, 
And  the  love  and  the  joy  and  the  glory  half 

left  behind 
For  the  mockery  of  a  name. 

MELKOS 
What  words  were  these  :    what  bitter  song. 

from  the  sea, 
Out  of  the  hills,  or  lifted  from  the  slain  ? 

NEANTHES 
Only  the  wind  I  heard,  and  a  sigh  from  the 

sea. 
It  is  gone  now,  and  the  far-off  sea  is  still. 

MELKOS 

[Again  turning  his  face  to  the  sea. 
Then  I  knew  a  goddess  I  beheld. 

[A  pause. 

315 


Persephoneia 

But   sad  she  was,  more  sad  than  I  had 

dreamed 

The  high  immortal  ones  could  ever  be. 
And  while  I  looked  I  saw  that  in  one  hand 
A  cluster  of  flowers  she  held,  anemones 
Wine-dark  in  hue,  the  sunbright  celandine 
And  poppies  heavy  in  a  downward  flame, 
With   pale   green   blossoms   of  the   yellow 

spurge. 

But  even  as  I  looked  a  withering  came 
Like  a  grey  bloom  upon  them,  and  that 

bloom 

Dusked  into  ash,  and  in  grey  ash  they  fell 
Making  an  eddy  of  dust  before  her  feet. 
Then  a  wild  dove  with  sudden  clamorous 

wing 

Batted  the  still  air  of  the  dreadful  peace  ; 
Circling  about  her,  come  I  know  not  whence  ; 
But  even  as  I  looked  the  grey  wing  sank 
And  as  a  falling  dust  the  cushat  fell. 

[A  pause. 

Then  all  my  soul  rose  up  in  me,  and  knew 
Persephoneia.  [A  pause. 

And  at  that  dreadful  name, 
Born  on  my  lips  as  dawn  on  a  moving  wave, 
The  dark  gulfs  of  her  dreadful  beautiful 

eyes 
Turned  slowly  upon  mine,  wherefrom  the 

light, 

316 


Persephoneia 

Ebbed,  as  the  withdrawing  gleam  ebbs  from 

a  pool 
On   sundown   sands   when  the   seas   grow 

suddenly  pale. 

From  that  day  unto  this  I  have  not  seen 
Goddess  nor  mortal,  maid  nor  mortal  man  : 
No,  nor  the  grey  stairs  of  Poseidon's  home, 
Nor  Helios  lighting  torches  on  the  hills, 
Nor  any  queen  hour  laughing  on  the  slopes 
Where  the   watercourses*  are,   nor  almond 

blossom 

Foaming  the  pools  where  purple  iris  grow. 
No,  never  once  have  I  beheld  my  kind  ; 
Never  the  goatherd  fluting  to  his  flock 
Black-feeted  kids  amid  the  lava  blocks 
Stained  with  old  lichen,  yellow  with  flower- 
ing spurge  ; 

Nor  the  white  train  of  sacred  maids  down- 
wending 

By  the  fig-bordered  ways  of  holy  Inessa, 
Nor  the  gold  filleted  ancient  men  who  bow 
At  Hybla,  nor  the  blue-robed  youths  who 

stand 

Watching  the  thousand  hounds  of  Hadranon. 
Yea,  all  these  weary  years  I  have  not  seen. 
In  gracious  places  I  have  never  heard 
The  chorus  rave,  nor  the  solitary  hymn 
Peal  from  the  heights  of  Enna  when 
doves 

317 


Persephoneia 

Gather  like  flames  before  the  K  ore's  fane  : 
Nor    laughter   in   the    nightingale-haunted 

woods 
When  the  moon  lifts  the  silver  from  the 

pools 
And  ripples  it  lightly  through  the  rippling 

boughs ; 

Never  for  me  the  chariot -race,  the  games, 
The  sounds  of  down-falling  cars  in  gladsome 

havens, 

The  kiss  of  wife  or  child,  the  choric  son.s; 
Of  kings  and  wars  and  mighty  kings  of  old, 
The  bubble  from  the  wine-skin,  the  gay  jibe 
And  all  familiar  things  of  the  old-time  day, 
For  I  am  old  and  blind  :  for  years  on  years, 
How  many  years  I  know  not,  have  been 

blind. 

That  sorrow  came  to  me  because  I  saw 
Divinity  unveiled,  and  for  a  moment  knew 
The  terrible  life  of  immortality. 
The  high  gods  rule  us  hardly.     If  we  fail 
To  seek  them  in  their  shrines  and  holy  places 
Sorrows  are  laid  on  us,  and  many  plagues, 
And  the  awful  weight  of  the  superhuman 

frown. 

And,  if  unseen  we  come  upon  these  folk, 
Star-tramplers,    sea-shod,    kindred    of   the 

powers 
That  are  the  Eternal  balance  of  the  world; 


Persephoneia 

Pitiless  are  they,  or  full  of  dreadful  scorn, 
Or  mockery  worse  than  flushing  of  the  levin. 
But   I  have  served  her  faithfully ,  Aweful 

One.  .  .  . 

Yea,  all  these  years  in  blindness  and  in  pain, 
In  sorrow,  loneliness  and  grievous  days 
I  have  not  strayed  an  hour  long  from  her 

shrine. 

Few  men  come  here,  to  this  deserted  land  : 
These  haste  away,  so  dreadful  is  the  air 
Of  deathless  immemorial  decays, 
Cities  that  were,  dis-peopled  villages, 
Gardens,  with  barren  founts  and  fruitless 

trees, 

Old  roadways  gathered  to  the  prickly-pear, 
Dry  watercourses  where  the  lizards  run 
With  withered  tongues  seeking  forbidden  dew, 
And  this  gaunt  solitary  ruined  fane 
Whereon  is  Silence,  terrible  and  alone. 
Yea,  I  have  kept  the  sacred  fire  alit 
From  dusk  till  dawn,  and  quenched  it  at  the 

dawn, 

And  every  noon  have  gathered  up  the  ashes 
And  thrown  them  in  the  grey  receding  wave. 
Yet  never  has  the  goddess  deigned  to  me  ... 
No,  not  a  word,  no,  not  a  little  word, 
Nor  even  guerdon  given,  albeit  ease 
Or  dreamless  sleep,  or  food,  or  shade,  or 

warmth, 

319 


Persephoneia 

The  visitation  of  unblended  hours, 
The  gifts  of  song,  of  prophecy,  of  dream. 
But,  when  I  die,  the  crow  will  pick  mine  eyes, 
And  if  the  crawling  wave  discrown  my  tomb 
The  clammy  fins  of  fish  will  touch  my  bones. 
[Raising  his  arms  in  supplication. 
O  thou  who  in  thy  unknown  secret  power 
Descendeth  hither,  coming  as  a  wind 
That  eddies  in  the  grass,  and  as  an  eddy 
Returning  when  it  wills,  in  a  secret  way, 
O  thou,  Persephoneia,  whom  men  worship 
High  in  the  holy  fane  of  the  sacred  Kore 
Where  Enna  rears  her  consecrated  steep 
In  frowning  flanks  of  basalt  from  the  wilds 
Hearken,  have  pity,  give  at  least  a  sign.  .  .  . 
For  I  have  served  thee  well,  who  am  broken, 

and  blind, 

And  now  am  old,  and  soon  shall  know  no  more, 
But  be  a  thing  that  was  not,  unrecalled. 

[The  boy  suddenly  gives  three  sharp 
calls  on  his.  reed. 

MELKOS 
Neanthes  .  .  .  what  ? 

NEANTHES 

A  shadow  suddenly  falls 
Which  nothing  casts,  where  no  one  is  !  ... 
yonder 

320 


Persephoneia 

Betwixt  the  columns  where  the  sea  gleams 

red, 
As  a  pomegranate  on  a  dark  blue  leaf. 

MELKOS 
Quick,   boy  !  .  .  .  Neanthes  .  .  .  does  the 

beam  of  light 

From  off  the  Hyblaean  hill  yet  reach   the 
roof  ? 

[Neanthes,  leaping  to  his  feet,  covers  his 
face,  and  turns  and  bounds  swiftly 
away. 

NEANTHES 
It  comes  !     It  comes  !     , 

MELKOS 

[Slowly  advancing. 
Hail  to  the  Kore  of  Enna,  hail ! 

[A  pause. 
Persephoneia  !     Mother  of  Life  and  Death  ! 

Hail! 
Hail,  Unbegotten  but  by  the  dreams  of  the 

gods 

Foreshaped  by  him,  Poseidon-Hippios, 
Foreknown    of   her,    Demeter,    the    veiled 

Queen  ! 
Hail  to  the  Kore  !     Hail,  Persephoneia  ! 

[A  pause. 
I  321  x 


Persephoneia 

Though  many  days  have   sunk  and  dark 

nights  risen, 
Yea,  many  moons  have  waxt  and  waned  in 

vain, 

And  thou  hast  not  revisited  this  place, 
Yet  art  thou  come  again,  O  Holy  One  ! 
I  know  well  by  the  portents,  and  the  awe 
That  lies  on  all  this  breath-suspended  shore. 

[A  pause. 

A  sign,  a  sign,  O  thou  whom  I  have  served 
In  silent  adoration  all  these  years  1 

A  VOICE 
Go  down  to  the  dim  waves  and  bathe  thine 

eyes. 

Maybe  other  gods  may  serve  thee  there  : 
Or  sleep,  or  dream.     I  knew  not  thou  wert 

blind, 
Who    have    never    known    nor    seen    that 

worshipper 

Save  as  a  shadow  flickering  in  the  silence. 
Go  up  to  the  hill-encircled  mountain  fane 
That  frowns  on  Enna,  and  then  lay  thee 

down 
On  the  altar-step,  that  so,  perchance,  my 

foot 

May  for  less  than  a  moment  burn  thy  lips. 
Then  may  thy   blindness   quicken  ...  or 

the  dark 


Persephoneia 

Drown  in  upon  thee  with  a  deeper  night. 

But    trouble    me    no    more    with    faithful 
service, 

That,  or  unfaithful.     Here  1  dwell  alone. 

[MELKOS  stands  in  silence,  then  slowly 
moves  towards  the  sea.  As  in  a 
dream  he  walks  slowly,  through 
lentisk  and  tamarisk,  often  look- 
ing back,  half  in  dread,  half  in 
expectation. 


WOODS  AND  SONS,  LTL.,  PRINTERS,  LONDON,  N.  I, 


Ill' I"  '•''  '*'"' "  <r»  f\  o  c  >l        o 


